


Little Fox

by RedEris



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Breakups, Canon Divergence, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mild Emetophobia Warning, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, despite appearances no love triangles, relationship angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-01 14:21:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 50
Words: 128,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4023130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEris/pseuds/RedEris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“What’s he like? The Herald.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Cullen’s mind flickered through the moments—Samhal, bloodied and terrified before the rift, haughty and imperious as he walked though the wondering crowd. Crude and harshly sarcastic, coy and suggestive, bitter and elaborately disinterested. Reports, unbelievable but later confirmed, of acts of bizarre bravery and apparent foolhardiness.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Samhal, cowering on his tent floor, battered and pleading. And now, traveling beside him as though it had never happened.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He realized that he had been silent for too long.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“I…really could not say.”</em>
</p>
<p>A canon-divergent take on the story of Inquisition featuring characters from all three games and one very reluctant Herald.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Samhal Lavellan was four when Clan Lavellan greeted the emergence of its next First with joy and festivities. He has a child’s blurry memories of dancing and nut sweets dripping with honey.

He was seven when a girl a few years his elder miraculously healed an injured halla and the future leadership of the clan was ensured through a strong, gentle Second. For many years he kept the pinwheel he was given to wave at that celebration.

When he was eight, his father died in a hunting accident. He has jagged, fractured memories of flame, songs to Falon’Din, the ritual wailing of the women. His older brother’s face, streaked with tears and soot.

When Samhal Lavellan was ten, a Shem trader brought disease to the clan. Over the course of a week, his mother wasted away, and left him in her sleep with no farewell. 

As the flames began to lick at her body, Samhal felt something like a scream sweep through him and radiate out of him in purple pulses, and _something_ heard, and his mother’s body rose jerkily from the bundled sticks, hair a flaming corona.

There was no celebration to greet Clan Lavellan’s fourth mage.


	2. Chapter 2

The place stank of sour ale, stale sweat, and onions. She was getting so sick of fouling her feet in one sordid establishment after another. Maybe, she thought, this was why shems wore shoes. Steeling herself to shut out the stench and din, she scanned the room without much hope. 

But there—head thrown back in laughter, vallaslin a pale blaze against the walnut skin of his throat. Samhal. Her heart caught. Still so beautiful.

As she took in more of the scene, her eyes flared wide. He was perched on one knee of a huge shem, a calloused hand covering half his stomach, seemingly perfectly at home. His shem clothing was in bright colors and rich fabrics that contrasted with his surroundings. Around the table sat an evil-looking crew, scarred and battered. One of the others was similarly decorated with a tiny blonde elf, her unmarked face identifying her as city-born. 

She picked her way between the tables and the puddles until she stood as close to the giant shem holding her quarry as she dared, and then cleared her throat loudly.

“Samhal? Ah…” Louder. “Samhal.”

“Mahren? What the…what are you doing here?”

The giant looked up as well, to see what had distracted his…his what? She shuddered involuntarily.

“Really, Samhal? This is…this is what you have chosen?” It was not what she had meant to say.

His green eyes kindled. “Chosen! Hah! Yes, I had so many choices. If it’d been left to me, I suppose I’d still be entertaining myself with your tepid arse under the trees.” He imbued the words with such scorn. “I got kicked out, remember? For existing. Don’t remember you objecting then.” Mahren reeled back from the harsh laughter of the brutes around the table. “Tell her, Little Fox,” crowed the giant. “Let me see you bite her.”

Samhal bared his teeth in a feral grin. “Well then? Did you come to remind me of what I’ve lost? Or maybe you’d like a sample of what I’ve found?” More laughter; a couple of leers.

“I came…” She swallowed a frightened, desperate sob. “I came to bring you to the Keeper. He has need of one who knows the ways of the shems.”

Samhal stared at her, hard-eyed. 

“Samhal, please…” She plead with her eyes, trying not to blink lest the tears fall. “Samhal. I’m camped outside the north gate. I’m sorry—I’m so sorry, but please, your people need you. And you could leave…this. Please come. I’ll stay there for two days.” She turned and fled, those cutting green eyes watching her retreat impassively.

“You goin’ somewhere, Fox?”

“Mmmm. Not tonight, anyhow. I know you’ve been saving up—I’d hardly go now that I have you.”

“Aye, pet. That’s what I like to hear.”

………………

He came up behind her, feet still sure and silent on the rocky ground.

“Alright,” he began. She whirled, braced to fight, strain showing in every line. “Alright, I’ll go back, and I’ll listen. But you listen first.

I’m not Dalish any more. Just an elf, just trying to make a living like the rest of the flat-ears. I’m not sorry. I’m glad. I had limited fucking options, but I chose. I wouldn’t go back if I could. You all think you’re so superior. You’re not. You’re not wiser, you’re not the enlightened ones, and you’re certainly not saving the elves. Everyone’s just trying to get by.

I don’t owe you anything. I don’t owe the Keeper anything. I’m here because I’m curious. And if I do whatever I’m wanted for, it will be because it interests me. I’m the only person I’ve got, so I’m the only person I answer to.”

She stared at him big-eyed.

“Got it?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“So…we go?”

They went.


	3. Chapter 3

The journey to Haven was eye-opening, if not exactly pleasant.

City walls and the rarefied circles through which he had primarily moved had insulated him from much of the mage-templar conflict. The pall that fell over a street as a band of roving templars stalked through. Titillating gossip and petty complaints overheard as he decorated halls protected by privilege and beautifully-forged iron gates. Refugees with sunken cheeks in the slums and thinly supplied stalls in the market. That one horrible night he’d spent huddled with the others in a back room as rogue templars duked it out with a couple of apostates in the second-floor apartment across the street. When he and a couple of the girls had snuck across the next morning, the bodies had been left to lie. They’d recognized the mages’ faces—just quiet strangers from the marketplace. But that had been the worst of it.

On the road, the wounds were much more evident. Costs were way up, especially once he hit Ferelden, where the fighting in the Hinterlands especially had seriously impacted the food supply. Children were thin; dogs were thin. Faces were suspicious even if you weren’t a lone elf covered in tattoos, openly hostile if you were. Outside one of the larger villages were the smoldering remains of several pyres. The unburned blade of a staff gleamed in the ashes, and Samhal wondered what it would be like to be so utterly guileless, so bereft of sense in a hostile world, as to still carry a staff. His own staff he had burned himself, five years gone.

As they neared Lake Calenhad they came across a succession of burned-out homesteads. Ragged families passed them in clumps, headed back towards Denerim and theoretical safety. If Denerim was anything like Amaranthine had been, little enough was waiting for them.

There were others moving towards the Conclave as well. In the group he’d left Amaranthine with was a pair of banns hoping to voice grievances, their retainers, several clerics, and a family of pilgrims hoping to see the Divine and the Temple. One afternoon a group of mounted templars passed them, scattering pedestrians in their wake.

None of them spoke to him if they could avoid it. The old mantle of the pariah felt familiar and darkly amusing. To his mild surprise, it was frankly relaxing not to have to sparkle for anyone, and he did not seek company.

As they moved into the mountains, he became more keenly aware that the gear which had been adequate in the Free Marches was not going to suffice for the Frostbacks. By then, his rabble had joined up with another group of clerics and their handful of mercenaries. Samhal turned up the charm with a depressingly fresh-faced mercenary—wasn’t exactly a test of his skills; fellow had rabbit fever something fierce—and netted himself a bedwarmer and extra blankets. Poor sod even got _sentimental_ after a few good tumbles and stole him a warmer cloak.

In Haven, he was the Little Fox again, charming his way into conversations and confidences, coming to grips with what it would take to get into the Conclave. He took a perverse pride in it—the exile, the outcast, humbly sought out for skills and knowledge his people distained. He’d do what he came for, even if he thought it utterly futile. Neither templar nor mage was fighting for the elves, and certainly the Chantry wasn’t. The overwhelming majority of the elves present were menials, silent and unnoticed as always. When he was out and about Samhal was mindful to keep his face quiet and posture submissive.

Tensions were high. The templars and mages kept to their own, while troops of loyalist templars wearing Chantry baldrics and a surprising number of soldiers in unmarked armor patrolled between. Samhal was very intrigued by the latter group—some moved like seasoned soldiers, some like raw recruits, and still others struck him more like city guard, and he had not, as yet, been able to determine to whom they were reporting. 

With so many people playing so many games that half of them had lost track of who was what, it turned out not to be that difficult to get access to the Temple after all. A few palmed coins, a couple of whispered promises, and he was in. He’d been to parties with better security.

The first three days of impassioned rhetoric and barely-controlled vitriol solidly confirmed Samhal’s opinion that nothing positive was going to come of these “peace talks”. He was much more interested in what was going on under the surface—for starters, with the exception of the Divine Herself, everyone seemed to have held back their major players. Then there were the undeclared soldiers, who were certainly being organized by _someone_. And last but not least were the Wardens, who should have had nothing to do with politics like this, and indeed did not seem very interested in the proceedings.

On the fourth day, after an hour of the same intensely painful failure to communicate he’d already had his fill of, he decided to take a bit of a stroll and see if there was more to be learned in the quiet corners than in the main hall.

Which, as it happened, there very much was.


	4. Chapter 4

He was first dragged into consciousness by a sparking, itching, tearing sensation that built in his hand and then clawed its way up his arm. When it reached his chest, his heart constricted painfully and he woke, gasping for air that would not come. His vision swam and narrowed, blackening around the edges, but for a moment a pale face swam into view—pointed ears, bald head. The pain receded and darkness rolled back in.

The next time Samhal woke it was to something much more closely resembling clarity. He opened his eyes to stone above, stone to the sides, dank hush all around. He pushed up onto an elbow, and the motion disturbed the two armored humans dicing by the—oh. The bars. Bars. Bad fucking start, that. The guards leapt up as if stung. They exchanged glances—frightened?—and sidled towards him together, one of them carrying a set of heavy wood and iron manacles.

“Hands out.”

He studied them flatly, trying to decide how far he could push. The second guard drew his sword, and Samhal decided that the answer, for now, was “not very fucking far”, and held out his hands. The shackles thunked into place, pinching one wrist painfully, and latched with a solid snap. 

It did answer one question, though. Clearly they didn’t suspect yet that he could probably just burn them off. Maybe. An advantage to hoard until the right moment. First, he needed to know more.

He made himself as small as possible and looked up through his lashes. Those lashes—long, thick, framing almost shockingly green eyes—had been a valuable weapon before this.

“Please, what’s going on? Am I a prisoner? Have I been sick?”

“Save it for the Seeker, murderer.” The first soldier spat, just to the side of Samhal’s cot, and turned to leave. The second stayed where he was, sword out, weight shifting nervously from foot to foot.

Murderer? Well, that just couldn’t be good.

“Hey…look. I’m just a little guy. I didn’t kill anyone. I’ve…been knocked out? I’m just trying to figure out what the Void is going on. I was at the Temple and then…I don’t know. Huh. I don’t know. And now I’m a prisoner? I swear I didn’t kill anyone. Just…help a fellow out?”

Silence. 

Samhal contented himself with squirming around until he was upright on the edge of the cot. A wooden stool sat nearby, and he hazily recollected the pale face over him. 

Suddenly, his left hand was seized with a burning, itching sensation and green energy crackled across it, splitting his palm. He doubled over for a moment before the sensation faded. Panic rose in him—if they thought he was a mage—but he hadn’t done that. That had been none of his magic.

The guard looked terrified. A terrified man with a sword pointed at him.

“Shit! Fuck! I didn’t…I didn’t do that. I don’t know what that is. I swear I—“ he broke off as a door slammed open somewhere nearby.

The first guard from earlier was back, scrambling to unlock the cell. Behind him stood two women, both armed and armored. The darker of these had what appeared to be the Chantry’s sun blazoned on her chest, only with a giant eye in the center. Oh, _excellent_ , religious zealots. As soon as the door opened, the wearer of the sun-and-eye thing stalked towards him, radiating anger.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now. The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Except for _you_.”

“Bullshit. That’s not possible.”

“No? Explain this!” She grabbed his hand, yanking harshly, and the green light and pain flared up in involuntary reaction.

“I don’t know! I’m not doing that! I have no fucking idea what’s going on, I swear.”

“You’re lying!” The woman seized him by the collar and he cringed, but then the other woman—hooded, with red hair, stepped forward and pulled the brunette off him.

“We need him, Cassandra.”

Well. That changed things. Need him for what?

The second woman stood in front of him now, the first prowling angrily behind her.

“Do you remember what happened? How this began?”

“You’re going to have to narrow that down a bit.” He tested, letting a small sneer into his voice. _We need him_

Her eyebrows drew down, but she only added, “At the Conclave.”

Samhal thought fast. “I was delivering a message. I don’t know what—someone paid me. And then…no, that doesn’t make any sense. I got knocked out. And…dreamed?”

“Dreamed what?” She leaned forward hungrily.

“Ah…” Images of his mother, hair flaming. He recoiled from the memory. “…Things. Chasing me. And then…something glowing? A glowing woman? No, that’s fucked. I don’t know. Why does it matter?”

The redhead looked as though she had more to say, but the brunette—Cassandra; she said Cassandra—took her arm.

“Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take him to the Rift.”

Leliana left. Cassandra stepped forward, and he failed to suppress a flinch, but all she did was unlatch the shackles, replacing them with expertly-tied rope. 

He didn’t fight. Just possibly he could surprise them, but he’d barely used magic in years, and they weren’t going to kill him right away. He could bide his time.

For a moment when they stepped outside, he hunched and covered his eyes in the sudden light. The wind cut into him, flinging shards of snow against his exposed cheek, the weather more bitter than he remembered it being when he had first arrived in Haven.

When he lowered his arms, though, there was no missing it. A gigantic vortex in the sky, spreading out above the mountaintops, staining the clouds and the snow the same virulent green as the mark on his hand. Connecting sky to earth was a churning pillar of the same light, huge chunks of rock impossibly suspended in and around it.

“Fucking Void.”

Cassandra looked away from the horrifying gash in the sky to eye him speculatively. 

“We call it the Breach. It is a massive rift into the world of demons—one that grows larger with each passing hour. It’s not the only such rift. Just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.”

She paused, as if waiting for a response, but he gave her none.

“Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.”

Samhal, staring at the lurid rift, strongly suspected that no one, this steely-eyed warrior included, knew fuck-all about what that would mean or did mean. The ‘world of demons’ presumably meant the Beyond, but…

The Breach pulsed, hungrily, and his hand exploded with sensation, clawing at his shoulder, his heart, his lungs. He fell to his knees, swearing.

Cassandra knelt in front of him and pulled him up, not ungently.

“Each time the Breach spreads, the Mark expands—and it is killing you.”

“Oh? You’re the crazy unknown magic expert now? I know we skipped introductions, but you don’t look the type, and you’ll forgive me if I don’t just take your word for everything.”

The warrior jerked her head and made an angry noise before speaking. “You…no, you are correct. We guess. We believe that that mark may be the key to stopping this, but our forces are…insufficient. It is our only chance—and yours. We must hurry.”

She watched him again, looking for something. He bared his teeth in what could not possibly be mistaken for a smile.

“Then by all means, lead the way.”


	5. Chapter 5

As she walked him through Haven, people clustered by the path, faces full of hate. Several spat. Something glanced off the back of his head.

Cassandra saw, and spoke. “They have decided your guilt. They need it. They mourn the Most Holy, Divine Justinia.”

“And you? It must be such a relief to have an elf on hand to blame.”

She jerked her chin to the side, jaw clenched on strong emotion.

“We lash out, like the sky. But we must think beyond ourselves. As she did. Until the Breach is sealed.”

They had moved past the village and were on the path up to the Temple. Cassandra turned, drawing her knife.

“There will be a trial. I can promise no more.” She cut his bonds.

Samhal’s lip curled at that.

The trip into the valley was made, for the most part, without conversation. The silence was filled with the whipping of the wind and the occasional distant scream, some human, some less so. Twice, the Breach pulsed and sent him to his knees, heart seizing painfully. The wind tore the tears from his face before the cold could freeze them, but he could not stop the trembling of his hands. They passed several bodies, and he paused, eyeing their clothing, then turned away, snarling at his own weakness.

They were crossing a frozen creek when the Breach pulsed yet again, and this time the green mass it spit out crashed into the ice in front of them. The ground bubbled grotesquely, and a twisted black from rose from the ice, arms ending in talon-tipped hands. Cassandra strode forward confidently, drawing her sword. Samhal backpedaled rapidly, sliding on the ice, bruising his heel on a projecting stone. He stared with sick fascination as the ground a few feet in front of him began to bubble and pulse. His hand itched and burned agonizingly and his heart thumped irregularly in his chest as another monster rose out of the ice.

“Cassandra?”

She was still occupied with the creature in front of her. The second demon glided nearer, nearly within striking distance.

“Cassandra! Fuck!”

Cassandra was just turning when the demon’s claws ripped into his shoulder and he threw his arm out defensively. There was a blinding flash of fire and then the demon between them just…wasn’t. Bits of ash drifted in the wind as Samhal and Cassandra stared at each other, both poised to fight. Samhal sucked air as blood trickled thickly from his shoulder.

“Mage.”

Samhal let a spell quietly build, motes of black swirling between his fingers like dust caught in sunlight.

“You lied. You are no messenger.”

“And I owe _you_ my life story?”

“The truth buys more allies than a falsehood.”

Samhal laughed at that—a short, harsh noise. “You read that in a children’s book, did you?”

The tension stretched, brittle, until distant shouting pulled at Cassandra’s attention. She glanced over her shoulder and then back at Samhal, sighing. She unbuckled a pouch from her belt and tossed it to him.

“Take these potions. Heal yourself. Maker knows what we will face. If…if you find a staff, you should take it. I cannot protect you.”

Samhal slugged a potion and pulled a face, but was grateful when the sickening pain in his shoulder faded and the bleeding slowed.

For the next fight, Samhal dredged up distant memories of half-hearted teachings sullenly received and lone experimentation in the woods. One demon he weakened, another quailed in momentary horror, giving Cassandra long enough to dispatch the first and turn. Further down the path, he managed to once more summon the fire he had found earlier, though more weakly. 

They came across a robed figure sprawled by the path and he toed it over to pick up a bloodstained staff with reluctant hands. He spun it once, experimentally, and then again with greater confidence. During the next fight, he managed several moderately dependable fireballs before the staff went between his legs and sent him flailing. He righted himself quickly and darted a glance at Cassandra, who was otherwise engaged with the fighting. After that he got a bit less fancy with the staff-twirling.

They were drawing closer to sounds of combat, and Cassandra, calling for him to follow, ran ahead. Samhal hesitated, glancing back down the now-empty path, before a shout of pain drew him forward.

The fight was half-over by the time he rounded the corner, but the shifting, pulsating green crystalline structure suspended over the struggling figures drew all his attention. His hand pulsed and tingled in response, almost seeming to call to the bizarre manifestation. He fired off a couple of blasts, not quite trusting his accuracy amongst the multiple combatants, but was surprised to see another mage spinning and dancing confidently in the midst of the action.

As the last demon fell, the other mage looked at Samhal with a strange familiarity and gestured him over.

“Quickly! Before more come through!” The man-- _pointed ears, bald head_ rung a bell in Samhal’s head-- ran towards him when he did not move, and, seizing his wrist, forced his left hand up, palm towards the green crystals. Something twisted and pulled and he shuddered, body and soul, as green light surged from his hand and clawed at the crystal. His lungs were on fire, his heart a convulsing knot of muscle. 

Suddenly the rift slammed shut and the connection broke, and Samhal sagged against the other elf’s surprisingly powerful grip, rolling limply into his shoulder. A fine-fingered hand spread across his chest, supporting him for a moment before he jerked upright again.

“That…what…you…the _fuck_?”

The other elf raised one eyebrow delicately. “I did nothing. The credit is yours.”

_Bullshit_.

“Bullshit. Bullshit! This is all bullshit.” His eyes were wild and his voice rose sharply with each repetition. The steadying hand returned.

“Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the Mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake—and it seems I was correct.”

The elf’s voice and Cassandra’s washed over him, people moved around him, but all he felt was the tightness of his lungs as he tried to pull air past the constriction of his chest. These crazies were going to get him _killed_ and he wasn’t a fighter and he didn’t want to be a fighter and _demons, really_? He wanted velvet hangings and satin sheets, candles and scented oils and warm skin in the dark and he should never have left the city, never never never…

A new voice tried to break through the buzzing in his ears.

“Guys? Hey, guys, I don’t think our new friend is doing so great.”

Something was definitely wrong with his heart. It was beating so hard he was sure it was visible through his clothing. Maybe Cassandra was right, and this was it, and this _fucking_ green hand was killing him. Why was he so hot? He’d been so cold and now everything was hot.

“Is it the mark?” Cassandra’s voice, concerned—but for him or for the mark?

“I do not believe so. I suspect we are merely seeing the physical manifestation of a very stressful change in circumstance.” The bald elf took Samhal by the shoulders and encouraged him to sit down. 

“In other words, he’s freaking out.” That was the as-yet unidentified voice, moving closer. A shadow fell across him and he looked up—not very far up. A dwarf. “I’d say that’s fair, under the circumstances. Varric Tethras, at your service. Rogue, storyteller, and occasional unwelcome tagalong.”

Samhal rolled his eyes round at all of them, whites showing, and clawed at his face, smearing a streak of his own blood down one cheek.

“Son, you really don’t look good. Hey…hey, it’s alright. There are no demons here, and we’ve got your back. Everything’s fine.”

“ _Fuck you_ everything’s fine. Everything’s _trying to kill me_.”

“Allow me.” The other elf shifted around until he was in front of Samhal.

“Hello. My name is Solas. I am here to help. Is my touching you acceptable?”

Samhal stared at him for a moment, and then nodded jerkily. The last thing he wanted was to lose that point of contact. 

“You are experiencing a panic reaction. It will pass. Do you understand?”

Cassandra’s legs loomed behind Solas. “What is this? We need to be going!”

Solas looked up and over his shoulder. “Cassandra, please step away. We will be with you shortly.” The warrior shifted her weight, hesitating for a moment, and then moved out of Samhal’s field of vision without further comment.

“Can you focus on my face? Thank you, good. Now please try to breathe more slowly. Follow my breaths.”

“I can’t! I can’t breathe!”

“Please continue to try.”

Long moments passed, and slowly, slowly, Samhal’s heart slowed its agonizing hammering and he got his breathing back under control. His stomach churned and his hands shook, but his mind was clearing.

Solas squeezed his uninjured shoulder gently. “Better?”

Samhal made a monumental effort to pull himself together and stood up. The other elf shifted his grip to help and stood with him. Once up, Samhal looked around at the snow and ice, the gathered soldiers, Varric, Cassandra, and finally Solas.

“Fuuuuuuuuck this.”

One corner of Solas’ mouth quirked up for a moment.

“Indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the sloooooow update. Mmmf. It is my intention to do better long-term.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean it about the graphic violence, guys. Just a heads-up.

“Is he well?” Cassandra strode back towards the other three, radiating impatience.

“What, like you care? Well enough to keep going, since that’s what you mean.” Samhal drew himself up and did his best to look down his nose. The warrior was still taller than him, but he’d had a lot of practice at being smaller than everyone.

“Then we should move. People are dying.”

She took off at a jog, and the others followed her.

Samhal found himself trotting along next to the dwarf, and a thought percolated back up from earlier.

“Wait, you said Tethras? Varric Tethras?”

“The one and only.”

“Well fuck me! How’s an author end up in a mess like this?”

“Ask the Seeker. Technically I’m a prisoner, same as you. You read my Tale of the Champion?”

“We’d all pass it around and take turns reading aloud, yeah. Anyhow, I’m out of Tantervale, so we heard some things when they happened.”

“Yeah? I took you for Dalish, with the…” Varric gestured vaguely at his own face.

“Ex-Dalish.”

“Huh. Strangely, not the first of those I’ve known. Well. The point is, Seeker there was after me to lead her to the Champion. Been hauling me along for a while—I suspect I’m getting to be a habit. What about you? You don’t make a very convincing mass murderer.”

“You’ve known many, then?”

“I thought you said you read the book.”

Samhal laughed, surprised into honest amusement.

“Fair enough. As for me, there seems to be a very awkward hole in my memory. I was at the Conclave listening to assholes yell at each other and then I was waking up in a cell. That”—he indicated the Breach—“is really not my style.”

Varric snorted.

“So, ex-Dalish, what’s your name?”

“Samhal. Sometimes Little Fox.”

“Little Fox. That a stage name or something?”

Samhal’s laugh was cut off by a sharp gasp of pain as the Breach pulsed again.

“Fuck! This is insane!”

“Yeah, well, welcome to the party.” Varric reached over his shoulder to unlimber his crossbow just as the ground in front of them began to bubble.

Samhal fought with increasing confidence, remembering techniques and sensations he had done his level best to forget in more recent years. Two demons had fallen and he was working on a third when he heard a sharp cry of pain just to his left, and turned to see one of the soldiers fall to the raking claws of a hooded demon that had somehow gotten behind them.

With a shocked cry of denial, Samhal slammed a particularly powerful fireball into the demon and ran back to the soldier. Blood welled thickly from a gash in the soldier’s neck, the skin gaping open grotesquely. Pushing down nausea, Samhal tried to stem the flow with his left hand, fumbling at his waist with the other for a potion. By the time he got the potion out and uncorked, consciousness was fading from the man’s eyes. Samhal tried desperately to pour the potion down the man’s throat, but much of it dribbled back out, and after a few more moments of futile effort, the light winked out and the man’s muscles went slack.

Samhal crouched there numbly for a few breaths more before he realized that he was feeling the jagged edges of the man’s flesh under his hand and jerked away, hurrying to scrub his hands through the snow. When he looked up, his companions were all watching him with varying expressions of pity or consideration.

“I hate absolutely everything about this.” 

He stood and walked down the path, not looking to see if the others followed.

 

………………..

As they rounded an outcropping, another rift became visible in the near distance. Samhal’s gaze turned inward for a moment, and then he picked up his pace to draw even with the other mage.

“Alright,” he hissed, pitched to be heard only by Solas, “what’s the story? I didn’t do that back there. You used me to do that. I appreciate the help earlier, but don’t think it’ll buy my silence if you plan on using me for cover.”

“I assure you, the power that closed the rift was entirely yours. I have, in fact, tried and failed to close them myself. I merely…nudged the magic in your hand.”

Samhal tipped his head up to catch the other elf’s eye, and Solas met his gaze calmly. Seconds passed, and then Samhal broke away first, clicking his tongue angrily as he shifted his eyes to the path.

“Have it your way.”

They took the next rift with only minor injuries and, after a long, dark look at Solas, Samhal closed it himself. It burned and froze and squeezed iron bands around his heart, but it closed, and when it was done he kept his breath even and glared around at the watching faces, back poker-straight.

The gates to the forward camp were just beyond where the rift had stood. Once opened, they revealed an assortment of supply crates and a fair number of injured soldiers.

“Wait…hey! Boss Lady!” Cassandra turned. “These…they were your soldiers, before the Conclave. Who the fuck are you people? Where do these soldiers come from?”

“I will explain once we have done what we can to keep these men and women _alive_.”

Sudden commotion ahead drew everyone’s attention. The redhead from the jail cell was walking towards them, a man in Chantry robes behind her, gesticulating angrily.

“You made it! Chancellor, this is—“

“I know who this is. As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution.”

“Order _me_? You are a clerk—a glorified bureaucrat!”

“And you are a thug, but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry.”

Samhal’s eyes flicked tensely between the cleric and Cassandra, but the next words came from the redhead—Leliana, he remembered.

“We serve the Most Holy, Chancellor, as you well know.”

“Justinia is dead. We must elect a replacement, and obey _her_ orders on the matter.”  
So…he was captive to…what? A rogue element of the Chantry? The Chancellor certainly made it sound preferable to being in the hands of the Chantry proper. 

The Chancellor could not be faulted for lack of decisiveness, at any rate. “Call a retreat.”

Cassandra shouldered forward. “We _can_ stop this before it’s too late.”

“How? You won’t survive long enough to reach the Temple, even with all your soldiers.”

Samhal snorted and picked a side. “Yes, let’s just ignore the demon-hole. Maybe it’ll go away! With leadership talent like this, I can’t imagine how war broke out.”

While Samhal and Chancellor Roderick glared daggers at each other, Cassandra and Leliana briefly argued over the best route to the temple. Leliana yielded to Cassandra, and the party, along with all remaining able-bodied soldiers, continued into the valley. On the whole, it was a much smaller party than Samhal would have preferred.

Not far ahead another group of soldiers struggled with the demons emerging from yet another rift. One fell as they approached, and several were already on the ground, either clearly in pain or horribly unmoving. Samhal forced down another burst of panic as he realized that the object he’d just stumbled over was an arm.

The fight felt more brutal than the ones before, but that might have been because Samhal was starting to flag. Somehow he had gotten drawn too close to the fighting, and suddenly he was staggering back as the ground blackened and writhed under him. A demon, all grotesque arms and legs, shot out of the ground and sent him flying. The terror’s arm was raised to strike him, and he cringed behind his arms, mind’s eye filled with the dying soldier, blood welling—but the blow never fell.

When he opened his eyes, the view was of a leather-clad hand held out, and above it a truly arresting lion-head helmet. He started to reach out to accept the proffered hand, but froze when he saw the flaming templar sword on the man’s vambraces. He got up on his own, and stepped back so that the armored figure wasn’t looming over him quite so badly. He caught and held the other man’s eyes through the lion’s maw, but could not read anything he saw there.

Solas brought Samhal’s attention back to their surroundings with a shout, and he threw out his arm, giving the magic there the inexplicable little twist that Solas had first forced on him. This rift was larger, and the pain and exhaustion were greater as well, but at last the rift closed. He staggered drunkenly, and this time the lion-headed warrior did touch him, catching him around the upper arm to steady him.

“So. The prisoner can close the rifts. I hope they’re right about you. We’ve lost a lot of people getting you this far.”  
“I didn’t ask anybody to, believe me.” From this angle, all Samhal could see was the lion’s fanged maw.

“Cassandra. The way to the Temple should be clear.”

“Then we’d best move quickly. Give us time, Commander.”

“Maker watch over you—for all our sakes.” The man turned away and moved quickly to help an injured soldier. Samhal eyed him for a long moment before turning to follow Cassandra into the temple.

The next shattered doorway brought the first of the corpses into view. Frozen in various poses of agony like nightmarish statues, they lay scattered where cataclysm had overtaken them. Samhal moved through them slowly, turning as he walked to stare.

“What happened here? How am I alive?” His voice was hushed.

“Yes,” Cassandra responded, “that is the question, is it not?” She indicated a spot, featureless and scorched like everything else. “That is where you walked out of the Fade, and our soldiers found you.”

The next corner brought the coruscating, shifting crystalline structure of the rift below the Breach into full view, and Samhal stopped to stare at it. It was much larger than the previous rifts.

Leliana appeared behind them, several more fighters in her wake. Cassandra turned to her.

“Leliana, have your men take up positions around the Temple.”

Cassandra turned to face Samhal. “This is your chance to end this. Are you ready?”

“How the Void should I know? Why, would you like to wait another few days just to see what happens?” He stalked past her to the edge of what had, last he’d seen it, been a balcony, now shattered and cut off.

Solas’s voice cut into the silence calmly. “This rift was the first, and perhaps it is the key. Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.”

Samhal began hunting out a way to draw closer to the rift, but as the party drew closer, a rumbling voice that seemed to emanate from the air itself froze them all.

“Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice.”

“What are we hearing?” Cassandra sounded breathless, gaping around as she searched for the source of the voice.  
Solas was the first to reply. “At a guess, the person who created the Breach.”

A little further down the path, Varric hissed angrily. He quickened his pace to catch up with Cassandra, grabbing her arm and indicating a cluster of huge red crystals jutting from a shattered wall.

“You know this stuff is red lyrium, Seeker.” 

“I see it, Varric.”

“But what’s it doing here?”

“Magic could have drawn on lyrium beneath the Temple and corrupted it,” offered Solas.

Varric made an angry sound. “It’s evil. Whatever you do, don’t touch it.”

Samhal eyed the crystals warily. When he passed close to one, it radiated a sickly warmth that did not tempt him despite numb fingers and agonizingly cold feet.

The voice rang out again, bass and somehow overwhelming. “Keep the sacrifice still.”

At last, Samhal eased himself over a short drop and found himself on the same level as the rift.

A woman’s voice echoed strangely through the air, crying, “Someone! Help me!”

The next voice sent Samhal reeling, jerking wildly as he stared around himself. His own voice.

“What the fuck is this,” it exclaimed, distorted but easily recognized.

“That was your voice! Most Holy called out to you…but…” she broke off as the rift shifted and suddenly a scene floated in the air above them. Dark figures circled the edges of the image, the Divine herself suspended by some sort of magical bond in the center. An image of himself, huge and ghostly, stepped into the edge of the image and then took half a step back, defensively. It repeated the words they had just heard.

The figure of the Divine looked towards his ghostly image. “Run while you can! Warn them!” Ghost Samhal took another step backwards, hesitating. A huge, taloned shape, more a black hole in the image, turned to him.

“We have an intruder.” The deep voice they had already heard several times. “Kill him, now.” The vision ended in a flare of green light.

After a bare moment’s recovery, Cassandra pounced on Samhal. “You _were_ there! Who attacked the Divine? Is she…? Was this vision true? What are we seeing?”

Cassandra was inches from his face by now, the strain and threat naked in her voice. Samhal resisted the urge to draw up his magic in response.

“You tell me and then we’ll both know. I told you, I don’t remember.”

“These are echoes of what happened here,” Solas interjected. “The Fade bleeds into this place.” He turned to them, controlled and confident, and suddenly, subtly, he was in charge. “This rift is not sealed, but it is closed, albeit temporarily. I believe that with the Mark the rift can be opened, and then sealed properly and safely. However, opening it will likely attract attention from the other side.”

Cassandra stepped forward, looking around to the double handful of scouts and soldiers. “That means demons! Stand ready!”

Weapons were bared and readied, and everyone looked expectantly at Samhal. He roundly cursed each of the Creators in turn, braced himself, and threw his hand up to the rift. 

The energy felt subtly different this time…the push and pull of opening rather than closing the rift was slightly less painful than that of closing one, almost as though the rift wanted to open.

And when it did, all hell broke loose.

A gigantic demon, many times the size of anything he had yet faced, materialized out of the rift with a roar. Shouting and screaming came from all directions. The first arrow struck the demon and simply shattered. The next thing to strike it was a blast of ice from Solas’ staff, and as frost briefly settled over a patch of the demon’s hide, the massive, horned head rotated towards the two elven mages. Samhal frantically began casting a weakening spell as he backpedaled. He felt a caress of foreign magic and glance at the other elf as a barrier rippled over him.

The fight was brutal and drawn out. Several more demons emerged from the rift, though mercifully none as large as the first. By the time that titan finally fell, Samhal had used all of his potions on either himself or the soldiers trying to protect him from the creature’s massive talons and lightning whips, and only adrenaline allowed him to push past the vicious pain of a sprawling burn that had shredded his left sleeve and fanned over his forearm.

Cassandra, who had been in the thick of the fighting at every moment, spun to him, shouting.

“Now! Seal the rift! Do it!”

Samhal let out a roar of combined pain and frustration and flung his hand at the rift. The mark in his hand flared out and pulled and pulled on him until his body screamed and his heart seized and his lungs burned.

His last coherent thought was, “Well, they won’t have the satisfaction of executing me now.”

…………………..

When he woke, clean, pain-free, and most astonishingly, apparently alive, he was thoroughly disoriented. He opened his eyes, cautiously, and was even more bewildered to find himself in a small, well-lit cabin. After taking a moment to orient himself in space, he sat up gingerly.

The motion provoked a startled cry and the crash of something being dropped. A very young-looking elf cowered away from him, the crate she had evidently dropped at her feet.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!”

“Well, and I wasn’t, was I? What happened? Where is everyone?”

“Oh, I’ve gone and said the wrong thing, haven’t I?”

To Samhal’s utter discomfiture, the girl promptly fell to her knees and groveled on the floor, begging for his forgiveness.

“You are back in Haven, my lord. They say you saved us. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand. It’s all anyone has talked about for the last three days!”

“Three days! Dread Wolf’s hairy nutsack, that’s a nap.”

The girl didn’t seem to know what to make of that.

“I must…I must go and inform Lady Cassandra. She said ‘at once’. Yes…at once!”

She turned and fled the cabin.

The moment the door latched, Samhal was up and moving. 

First, he ripped the blanket off the bed, and then he began throwing things into the center of the sheet. He rifled the cabin ungently, snatching up an earthenware jug, a set-out meal of bread, cheese, and an apple, a fennec fur off the wall, and a few other salable odds and ends, and then bundled it all into the sheet, quickly folding and tying the corners to make a rough knapsack.

The pack went over his shoulders first, to disguise his slight outline, and then he drew the blanket over his head and shoulders, quickly piercing the top corners with his boot-knife and securing them with a bit of pilfered cording.

He cracked the door to peep out, and quickly shut it. Back window, then. In the back corner someone had rested the staff he had fought with, now carefully cleaned. He ran a hand over the head thoughtfully, but let it lie.

He was out through the shutters of the back window and slipping back down the mountainside within minutes.


	7. Chapter 7

By dusk of the first day Samhal reflected that staying in Haven to be executed would, at least, have been warmer. It almost sounded like reason enough.

He stuck to whatever scrubby cover and trees he could find within sight of the road, preferring to take his chances with non-human predators. The combination of cold and rough going burned through the small snack he had grabbed long before dusk, and so he stopped with some light to spare and foraged a pathetically light dinner before throwing together a brush shelter for the night.

The next two days demonstrated to Samhal very thoroughly that a few weeks of traveling with children and clerics did not make up for years of soft living. Chapped lips and cracked hands fretted at him nearly as much as his empty stomach and tortured feet. On the fourth day he gave up trying to hunt with the sling he’d patched together, incinerated it in a fit of rage, and killed a nug with a fireball. He cried over the first full mouthful of food he had eaten since finishing his stolen apple, hated himself for crying, and then cried some more just for being so pathetic. 

On the fifth day he came to the edge of a village that he remembered as clustering around a fairly well-frequented inn. He stood concealed in the scrubby verge of a field, toying with the weight of his coin-purse and fighting himself. 

If they were looking for him, it would be easy to pick up his scent as soon as he made contact with humans. His unique looks had been an asset in Tantervale, but here, the tiny, dark-skinned, red-haired, tattooed elf stood very little chance of blending in. None, really. The most cursory questioning would reveal him.

It really depended on how badly they still wanted to pin his hide to the wall. He’d done what they asked, and maybe Cassandra would be persuaded by the evidence at the rift. But a man like Roderick only wanted someone to pay, and the world was full of men like Roderick. How deep were their resources? How wide was their reach? If the full power of the Chantry, even in its current state of upheaval, was after him then there was nowhere he could run. He was dead and it was that simple.

Well. If it was a choice between dying cold soon or dying warm later it really wasn’t much of a choice. He snuck far enough into the village to steal a bucket of water and retreated to cover to wash up as best he could. No point going in _smelling_ like a wild fugitive. He mourned his haggard looks, pulled himself together, and walked through the inn door trying very hard to look as if there was nothing peculiar about an elf traveling the roads alone.

When the warmth hit him, he nearly cried again. Once he had food and drink, he found the darkest corner that wasn’t occupied, so that no one would see how his hands shook as he ate. He wouldn’t go back out in the cold by himself. He wouldn’t. He’d wait here until a group came through for him to attach himself to, and if they caught him, so be it. Apparently it was only a freak accident that he was still alive anyway. 

………………..

A proper night’s sleep on a full stomach did worlds to restore Samhal’s confidence, and he woke the next morning ready to continue the fight. Maybe if he could get out of Ferelden they wouldn’t follow. He could slip back into his life—Cerise had made it clear that her Little Fox was welcome back when this job was done—and the whole thing would be a bad memory, and perhaps eventually a funny story. He groomed his hair carefully, attempted to fingerpress some life back into his collar, and appropriated some lard from the fat-lamp by the bed to soothe chapped lips and hands. When he headed for the common room, he was prowling and ready to charm.

The inn was surprisingly populated, between pinch-faced refugees and wary locals eager for the news. Last time he had been here, the news had been of mages and templars and the Conclave. This time, it was all the Breach and the rifts. The rifts, which apparently were not restricted to the area around the erstwhile Temple. As stories flew about demons in field and forest, about slaughtered cattle and slaughtered neighbors alike, Samhal’s spirit writhed and he shoved his marked hand between his legs, deep under the heavy tables.

They would find another way. Solas had known a great deal more than he’d let on. He’d said he hadn’t been able to seal the rifts, but surely after feeling Samhal do it he would find a way. Samhal was not made to be a hero, that much was clear. They’d had plenty of hero material there. That lion-head fellow, he was everything the world wanted in a hero—big, strong, righteous, Templar—human. Varric—hell, the world already knew Varric was a hero, and surely he had a whole collection of heroes he could summon with a letter.

Anyway, they didn’t want him for a hero. They wanted him for a villain. Which, as he’d told Varric, really wasn’t his style. He was very good at a lot of things. He’d go back home and stick to those things.

And so when a dwarven merchant and his heavily-armed guards left for Denerim two days later, a small elf went with them, casting shadowed eyes down the road behind him.

…………….

They caught him two days later, just as he was spooning the night’s pottage into a chipped treenware bowl. He sat down on a log, found that Varric was sitting next to him, and leapt back up, spilling barley and salt pork down his leg.

Varric stayed on the log, hands spread in front of him.

“Hey there, Fox. ‘S just me. Just here to talk. No harm in talking, is there?”

Samhal eyed the ring of staring faces and the weapons in several hands.

“Says the storyteller. For shame.”

Varric laughed easily. “Let’s say it’s hardly ever immediately fatal, then. Hey boys, it’s alright, just catching up with a friend. If you’ll excuse us for a moment?” The dwarf pushed himself up and walked out of the circle of firelight, glancing back at Samhal. Samhal sighed, tore up a clump of grass, and did his best to flick the muck off his leg. Defiantly, he picked up his bowl and refilled it before bowing to the inevitable and following Varric into the night.

He was utterly unsurprised to find Solas waiting with Varric outside the tents.

“Where are the rest, then? Surely you at least brought Boss Lady to glower at me?”

“They’re camped back down the road. The theory was you’d rather talk to us first.”

“Oh, isn’t that twee of them? They sent their token non-humans to soothe me down.”

“The rifts and the Breach are not a human matter, and I hope that we will not be the only non-humans to join the effort to address them. You, however, are the one that matters, whether you will it or not.” Solas rocked back on his heels, hands clasped behind his back.

“What, you haven’t sussed out how to do my party trick yet? Surely it’s a matter of time. You probably noticed that I’m a pretty indifferent mage.”

“The magic in your hand is unique. It is not tied to your magic, and I suspect that it would function much the same if you were not a mage at all. I cannot reproduce it. The rifts must be closed and you alone can close them.”

“So here’s an important detail, though.” Varric caught Samhal’s gaze and held it. “The soldiers who saw what went down at the Temple told the story, and it spread. They’re calling you a hero now. They’re calling you the Herald of Andraste.”

“The _what_?”

“When you fell out of the Fade the soldiers saw that shining woman, right? Well, now they’re saying it was Andraste, and it was her that preserved you and marked you.” Varric shrugged fluidly.

‘But that’s…I…that’s fucking ridiculous! Have they _seen_ me? If we’re going to talk about gods, which I’d really rather not, I’m fairly sure June has prior claim. This is…oh Void, if the girls could only hear this.” He could hear the rising hysteria in his voice, and clamped his lips shut.

Solas spoke. “Ridiculous or not, it is what many believe now. Your position is complex. The Chantry has already heard, and renounced the idea as heretical. However, the Chantry has lost much face since the defection of the Templars. Many will believe in you despite it. They are terrified. They require a hero.”

“But I’m not a hero! I’m not a hero! I’m the fourth, the creepy one, the exile, ‘that pretty little rabbit boy with the magical mouth’. You can’t make that into a hero!”

“I am not attempting to. Such things are rarely chosen freely. They will believe what they choose of you, but you still have choices, if not all the choices you might wish to have. You are the only one with the power to seal the rifts.”

“Not to mention that the Chantry’s out for your blood, whereas back in Haven you’re the big hero.”

“ _Fuck!_ ” Samhal pressed the heels of his hands into his temples as if somehow that would relieve the crushing strain he felt. He turned around a few times in the dark, looking for a way out, an escape. Varric and Solas waited patiently, and minutes passed in silence.

Finally, Samhal lowered his hands, slumping.

“Alright, yes. I’ve chosen. Let me go get my stuff and see if they’ll give me my money back.”

Varric thumped him gently on the back. “Sorry, Fox. For what it’s worth, I get it. And it was fucking hilarious watching everyone panic when they realized you’d run.”


	8. Chapter 8

Half a mile down the road, the fire of another camp shone through the darkness. Cassandra was silhouetted against the light, staring down the road. She came to life as they came near enough to be made out, striding to meet them.

“You! You ran! People needed you, and you ran!”

Varric shifted as if to intervene, but Samhal stepped into the threatening finger, letting it press into his chest.

“Try this on instead, Boss Lady. _You_ put me in chains, threatened me with execution, forced me to fight monsters, and then I helped your sorry asses anyway and nearly killed myself doing it. What do I owe you, exactly?”

“I heard Most Holy call out to you for help. I was wrong. Perhaps I still am. But you fled when people needed your protection.”

Samhal spat past her shoulder. “Protection? No one’s ever protected me. No one protects my kind. I protect myself. Let the rest do the same.”

This time, as Cassandra sputtered, Varric did step in.

“Why don’t we all calm down? First off, Seeker, he came back when we asked, so remember that. He’s here now. Fox, listen—at least once, someone or something helped you, or you wouldn’t be here. I don’t pretend to know who the shining woman was, but you’re alive when so many others are dead. I think this Breach thing is a lot too big for people to fight by themselves. So we work together. Okay? We work together?”

Neither Cassandra nor Samhal broke their staring match to spare a glance for Varric, but they both held their tongues, at least. Solas and Varric, and further away a tense group of Leliana’s most trusted scouts, watched them closely.

“I’m here. I still think it’ll probably get me killed, but I’ll do the magic hand trick until you figure out another way to do it, okay? I don’t like all this dying either.”

Samhal jerked away and stalked towards the tents. His final shot was barely audible.

“Ruins my appetite, all this fucking dying.”

………………

Samhal said very little at breakfast the next day. When they set out, he walked apart, slouching along sullenly. Varric studied him for a while in quiet amusement before walking close enough for quiet conversation.

“Were you going to sulk all the way back to Haven?”

“That’s the plan, yes.”

“That sounds tiring.”

“You want I should be happy?”

“I’d say it’s better, given the option.”

“I only act sweet if there’s money in it.”

“Are you kidding? If you’re a player, get in the game! They’re calling you the Herald of Andraste! That doesn’t sound like it has potential for kickbacks to you?”

“What it sounds like is a quick trip to martyrdom for a faith that’s never done anything but fuck me over.”

“Okay, maybe, yeah. So you’re just going to roll over and sulk ‘til the end, then? Or are you going to play the cards you’ve been dealt like the pro I think you are?”

Samhal chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully as they walked.

“I guess…it could be just a different kind of party to work.”

“That’s the spirit!” Varric clapped Samhal on the back. 

Samhal responded with a coy sidelong smile and delicately bit the corner of his lip, and Varric laughed.

“Oh no, son. I’m not your mark. We’ll work the party together, each in our own ways, and we’ll make a killing—you’ll see.”

…………………

Around mid-afternoon Cassandra called a brief half for lunch, and when she sat down with her portion of road-bread and dried apples, Samhal squatted gracefully next to her. She eyed him warily when he flashed her a quick smile.

“So it seems like it’s about time I got a better idea of what’s going on here. Like for starters what’s a Seeker and who’s a Cassandra and why are you in charge and where in Thedas did you get these?” His gesture took in the scouts and Solas, who raised an eyebrow slightly.

“It is…difficult to explain. I will try. I—we—Leliana and I were the Left and Right Hands of Divine Justinia. Most Holy knew the war was coming long before it began. We were trying to prepare an Inquisition, like the Inquisition of old, to restore order and bring the Templars and the Chantry back to the principles on which they were founded. We…failed. And now Justinia is dead. The Inquisition, however, is needed now more than ever. We have declared ourselves, and…” She glance at Samhal and then glanced away nervously. “We have aligned ourselves with the Herald of Andraste. What is left of the Chantry has declared you, and by extension us, dangerous and heretical. But I will not wait on their approval to do what is necessary. We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order.”

“So, you’ve been preparing this for a while, then? Collecting these troops?”

“Yes. The Breach has forced our hand. We are ill-prepared and ill-equipped. It is…not enough. But with you…you were exactly what we needed, when we needed it. I must have faith that you can continue to be so.”

Samhal chuckled. “Yeah? Your Lady has set you quite a test of faith, then.”

“You do not believe? Yet you were saved nonetheless.”

Samhal responded only with a snort, and the two of them ate in silence for a while.

“Let me make sure I’ve understood correctly, then. You and Leliana are making a grab for Chantry power using this Inquisition business, you want to…what, reconcile the mages and templars?...and you want me for your figurehead on the completely ludicrous grounds that I am the chosen champion of Andraste?”

“I would not have said it like that. We do need you—though the Breach is stabilized, you lacked the power to truly close it. We will begin with the smaller rifts, and we hope that once we have more power, we can obtain the means to supplement your strength and close the Breach for good. For now, that must be our foremost goal.”

“Okay.”

“Pardon me?”

“I said okay. Okay. I’ll play along.”

Cassandra sagged almost imperceptibly with relief.

“Provided”—he broke off, and she tensed, turning to him.

“Provided I get warmer gear. Last time we were in the valley I really thought the Little Dragon was going to freeze and snap off, and then life would really not be worth living. Mmmm…I wonder what fur-lined smalls would be like.” He wriggled sinuously and favored Cassandra with a broad smile full of even, white teeth.

Cassandra stared at him aghast for a moment.

“Ugh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Red-Land, people talk. A lot. It is what Red loves best.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead! Not quite!

After lunch, Samhal found the mage Solas next to him.

“The chosen of Andraste—a blessed hero sent to save us all.”

“Please don’t tell me you believe that.”

Solas studied him for a moment before responding. 

“I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clashed to re-enact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten. Every great war has its heroes. I’m just curious what kind you’ll be.”

“That’s—wait, you’ve done what? The dreams of lost civilizations?”

“Any building strong enough to withstand the rigors of time has a history. Every battlefield is steeped in death. Both attract spirits. They press against the Veil, weakening the barrier between our worlds. When I dream in such places, I go deep into the Fade. I can find memories no other living being has ever seen.”

“Creators, but that’s…incredible! You can really see firsthand memories of the past?” Samhal would not have recognized himself in the look of wide-eyed excitement on his own face, but he would have cultivated it had he seen it. It made an extremely charming sight.

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Could…could _I_ do it? If…if you’d teach me?”

A small smile softened Solas’ face remarkably. “Perhaps. It is that, in fact, which I wished to discuss with you.”

“Is what now?”

“You spoke of yourself as an indifferent mage. To me you appeared only to be poorly trained—indeed, the improvement you showed as you fought was remarkable.”

“Yes, well…I’m an apostate—I’m not part of my former clan, not for years now. I moved to the city and did my level best to be just another elf until”—he paused, fluttering his hands expressively as he searched for words—“all this.”

“I am an apostate mage like yourself. I understand your caution.”

“And yet you joined this crazy party voluntarily? With templars and Chantry nutjobs?”

“Not the wisest course of action, when framed that way.”

“Then we’re in it together, I suppose. And I hear I owe my life to your questionable decision making, so…thank you.” Samhal surprised himself by meaning it. Solas acknowledged the thanks with a slight nod.

“To return to the subject at hand. It is likely that you will need to fight again before this is over. I wished to offer my services in training and improving your skill with magic.”

Samhal walked in silence for a while, watching his feet, before answering.

“I’m…not a good student.”

“It is the responsibility of the teacher to discover the method by which the student will learn. If you are actually willing, now, to learn, then I am not concerned that my efforts will be wasted on a man of clear intelligence and spirit.”

Samhal’s step faltered and he blinked owlishly at Solas, but a moment later his face was hard and laughing.

“We’ll see if you still think that once you’ve tried.”

……………………………….

The first lesson began the next day at dusk as Cassandra and the scouts set up camp and made a simple hot meal.

“To begin, it would be useful if you could tell me a bit about the manifestation of your magic. Often, the type of magic one uses at one’s manifestation will often transpire to be the”—

“No.”

Solas examined Samhal’s suddenly hard face closely.

“No to precisely what?”

“No we’re not talking about it and no I won’t be training in that school of magic. No.”

“Very well. Is there any field of magic you _are_ interested in pursuing?”

Samhal watched a fennec darting along the treeline, the rodent in its mouth unidentifiable at this distance.

“Well…no one in the clan knew much about it—or wanted to—but I think some of the things I figured out on my own were…entropy?” Strands of darkness coalesced around his fingers briefly, and the fennec stumbled and wobbled, dropping its dinner. A second later it shook itself as if to right its fur, picked up the rodent, and scurried off.

“A field with considerable potential for someone expecting to fight as part of a group. I know more of it in theory than in practice, but we may make a beginning. You will also need to refine your control and focus for basic attack spells. Shall we start with your fireball?”

As the dusk thickened, the two of them moved together at the edge of camp, Solas demonstrating stances and Samhal copying them, the larger elf correcting the lines of shoulders and hips with light touches and quiet words. The scouts eyed the periodic flash of fire warily as they cared for their gear and spooned their suppers. When the two men came back to the fire at last, Samhal’s eyes were bright. At a quiet word from Solas, his teeth flashed in the warm light, bright against dark skin. 

………………………..

A cold, wet day’s walking later, Samhal found himself in the common room of the same inn yet again, surrounded by the warmth and noise of farmers whiling away a long winter evening. The innkeeper raised an eyebrow expressively.

“Thought you were headed to Denerim. With a different crew?”

“Yes, well, funny story. Turns out I’m the hero nobody wants but everyone needs, or something. Keep your eyes peeled for the whole sordid tale, as told by famed author Varric Tethras.” 

Cassandra made a disgusted sound and shouldered past with a pack slung over each shoulder. Samhal grinned and stretched expansively, catlike in the warmth. He looked around the common room with a different eye now that the worst had happened and it was not so terrible. Might be about time to let loose a little.

……………………………..

Solas ate the last of his turnip stew with a grimace of distaste and pushed the bowl aside, reaching into his satchel for the book he had been studying. 

Ah, no. He pictured the book where he had opened it across the blanket so that the pages could lose the dampness they had picked up on the road.

Sighing, he pushed himself up and stepped carefully over the bench, avoiding contact with the men on either side of him. The evening was still young and the inn’s common room was getting loud. He scanned over faces quickly, finding Varric where he had conned a few other men into a game of cards, Cassandra standing by with arms crossed, but missing Samhal, who had so recently been the warm fire in the middle of the group. Perhaps he’d just gone out to relieve himself.

The decrepit latch on the room door had fallen shut again, but it was a simple matter to tease it up with a wisp of magic. He opened the door, moving distractedly, before the sounds coming from within had time to register.

He should have closed the door again immediately, but for just a moment he was caught. Caught by the sheen of sweat on Samhal’s thigh, by the definition of the calf draped over the other man’s elbow, by the upward curve of his throat as his head pressed back into the pillow. Caught, long enough for Samhal, who was facing the door, to spot the motion there, look straight at him, and _smile_ , before he remembered himself and closed the door.

He was back in the common room, staring at nothing, when Samhal pushed in next to him on the bench.

“I did latch the door. Can’t blame me there.”

“I am less concerned with what I saw than with what the man you were with saw. You are distinctive. Do you not think that he will remember the evening he spent with a dark-skinned dalish elf with pale vallaslin?”

“I should hope he does. I’d certainly be losing my touch otherwise.”

Solas scowled at the other man’s flippancy.

“You are the Herald of Andraste, now. Posturing is necessary. You must project an image which people will wish to follow. Your position does not permit…rolling with every stranger who catches your eye.”

“Not _every _stranger.” Samhal ran a coin back and forth through his knuckles, smiling. “Think of it as raising funds. Besides, a man has needs. Or are you offering to keep it in-house?”__

__Samhal looked at him sidelong and bit the corner of his lip, oh so delicately, and then let his face spread in the vulpine grin that had first earned him his nickname, canines prominent. Solas studiously ignored the entire display._ _

__“Earlier, I expressed curiosity as to what kind of hero you would become. I continue to wonder.”_ _

__The grin did not falter. “I’m sure I don’t know. I’ve never been a hero before.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason I'm super-nervous about this chapter. It sat for a while before I posted it and I don't know what's making me twitchy.


	10. Chapter 10

Leliana awaited them at the base of the road up to Haven, out of sight of the village. Two of her people watched at a slight distance. Her face was a neutral mask as she watched the party approach.

Leliana and Cassandra shared a quick clasp of hands, but the red-headed woman looked past the warrior to Samhal. In a voice meant to carry, she called, “Ah, Herald! We are all deeply relieved to see you back safely from your mission. The people eagerly await their chance to greet their hero.”

“My terribly important secret mission? That mission? Of course.”

More quietly, she replied, “It is all they need to know, yes? People are frightened. They need a hero.”

“And so do you. How convenient for everyone.”

Cassandra cut in. “The deception holds, then? Who else knows?”

“Still only the Commander and Josephine. Are you here to join us, then? Do you understand what is needed?”

“Shake babies, kiss hands, seal rifts, right? Yes, I understand just fine. I’ll be your dancing bear. For now.”

Behind the trio, Solas cleared his throat. The younger elf rounded on him with a glare.

“Yes, _ha’hren_ , I’ll play nice.” He turned the glare on the rest of his companions impartially. “Don’t pretend to know me, and don’t fuck with me. Just watch.”

Head held high, he turned and led the way up to Haven without a backward glance.

When the guards scrambled to open the gates before him, he strode through without breaking stride or turning his head. His arrival prompted a frantic scramble, shouts and rushing about as people found places along the path—some watchful, some worshipful. He favored them all with the same distant smile. Leliana walked a pace behind him and to the side, speaking rapidly in low tones.

“Our ambassador—Lady Josephine Montilyet—and the Commander of our forces wait at the Chantry to greet you.”

Samhal inclined his head regally to a woman kneeling by the path. “Commander of our forces? What, all twenty survivors?”

“More have volunteered since your success. You inspire them. You give them hope.”

“Which of us are you trying to persuade?”

“You alone survived the explosion and you alone may close the rifts. You are marked, whether you wish it or no. Is it so impossible that you might serve the will of a higher power?”

Samhal’s smile changed subtly for a moment, harsh and cruel, before he smoothed it back out.

“Very well then. Tell me about _my_ ambassador and commander. That’s really what we’re calling them? You lot are selling this pretty hard.”

“Lady Josephine Montilyet of Antiva, a shrewd and skilful negotiator and personal friend. And the commander, Cullen Rutherford, former Knight-Captain of the Kirkwall Circle.”

A muscle ticced in Samhal’s jaw and his nostrils flared for a second. “ _Kirkwall_? Wait, the lion-headed one.”

“The same, yes. He is training the new recruits, as are the former templars who have followed his example.”

As they ascended a final set of stairs and the Chantry doors came into view, Samhal’s face smoothed into an imperious mask.

“Lady Montilyet! Commander! How good to see you!” His voice filled the space, smooth and cultured and stripped almost entirely of the Dalish lilt it normally carried. “I can’t thank you enough for keeping things up while I was away!” Samhal turned in a graceful circle, picking eyes out of the crowd with a performer’s skill, before striding straight past the astonished diplomat and warrior. A dazed soldier fumbled the Chantry door open just in time.

“Well? Surely we have planning to do?”

At the edge of the crowd, Varric grinned broadly, right hand twitching in search of a quill.

…………………..

As soon as the door of the makeshift War Room closed, Samhal rounded on the others, smirking.

“That what you wanted, then?”

Four humans regarded him with varying expressions of bemusement, astonishment, and, in Leliana’s case something that looked suspiciously like amusement. Cassandra began to speak, cleared her throat, and tried again.

“It…yes. It will do.”

The small woman who must be Josephine recovered first, offering her hand and a gracious smile. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you at last. I am…most grateful that you decided to return to us.”

“Well, they told me I’d missed seeing the loveliest, most charming thing they had, and I had to come back to see for myself.” He took the offered hand and kissed it lightly. Josephine’s eyes twinkled.

Samhal turned hard green eyes on the tall, blonde man next. Cullen straightened to rigid attention.

“Knight-Captain of the Gallows, Cullen Rutherford?”

“Formerly. Though I would prefer not—“ Whatever Cullen had intended to say was lost in the sound of the heavy door slamming against stone as Chancellor Roderick burst into the room, a distressed guard trailing him.

“How dare you! This man is a murderous heretic and an apostate! I demand that he be arrested and taken to Val Royeaux at _once_!”

“Oh fun. Why is this fuck-off still here?”

“You! The Chantry will see to it that you pay for your crimes! I will see to it! ‘Herald of Andraste’, indeed! As if Our Lady would—“ Roderick sputtered to a stop, staring in horror at Samhal, who was gazing disinterestedly into a corner as his hand moved obscenely back and forth in front of his crotch, cupped around nothing. “You _dare_!”

“Oh, please, ser, keep going. I love listening to other people wank. Gets me right off.”

Something that sounded suspiciously like a cut-off laugh came from Cullen’s direction. After a moment’s shock, Cassandra stepped forward.

“Chancellor Roderick, you have no authority here. Whatever you think of it, we speak with the authority given us by Most Holy. The Herald has agree to aid us in closing the Breach, and _we will do so_ , with your leave or without it. Guards, escort the Chancellor out.”

Roderick glared daggers at the nervous guard and saw himself out. As he went, Samhal called after him.

“Ah, Roddie, you’re leaving me hanging? Come ‘round later and we’ll finish up!” The door closed on the elf’s mocking laughter.

Samhal glanced around the silent room. “What, don’t like what you’ve bought? Should’ve done your research better. We’re all hung together now—so what’s the next move?”

……………………………

Dusk was thickening to full darkness by the time Samhal found Varric and sidled into the circle of his fire.

“Fox! Pull up a log, join us!” Varric gestured expansively to the fire and the handful of men and women throwing the knucklebones next to it. The group startled at the sight of him, struggling in the absence of protocol. Two stood to attention, one knelt, and the remaining two stiffened awkwardly, at a loss. Varric sighed. “Go on, then. I’ll get the rest of your money later, no fear.”

Samhal took one of the now-vacated stumps, watching the retreating figures.

“Going to have to decide what you want to do about that.”

“Yes, well, being revered is a new problem for me. Any suggestions?”

“Well, Hawke always aimed for ‘too ridiculous to take seriously and too crazy to predict’ and then threw really big parties to make up the difference. But I’m not sure that’ll work for you.”

“Watch me. I’ll make stumps and icicles then next big rage in Orlais.”

Varric snorted. “I don’t think you’re Hawke, though. At a guess.”

“Well, tell me all about her later, but right now I was hoping for information about someone else, actually. You were in Kirkwall. What can you tell me about Ser Big-and-Shiny templar-not-templar?”

“Ah. Cullen. Yeah. He’s—I don’t think there’s a simple answer to what you’re really asking here. He…I think he wants to be the good guy, whatever that is. If he hadn’t let Meredith lead him around by the nose all those years, if he’d stood up to her sooner, maybe Kirkwall--but no, that wasn’t…that’s not on him, really. After Meredith died, he and Aveline between them did everything they could to hold Kirkwall together, and I’ll be forever grateful for that. He’s competent and he works his ass off. What does he think of mages? I’m not sure even he knows the answer to that now, but I’d say ‘terrified’ is in there somewhere, and that’s dangerous. Is he a threat? Well. If he decides to come for you, you’ll see him coming, I’ll tell you that. Got a Noble Ser Knight complex a mile wide—he wouldn’t sneak around if his life depended on it.

He let Hawke and Anders go. Not that he had a choice, but I don’t think he would’ve hesitated to nobly get his ass blown off if he thought it was the right thing to do. But he let them go, and he came here. Seven years of ‘mages aren’t people like you and me’ and then he let them go. I don’t know. Sorry I’m not more help. All I can say for sure is that in your position, I’d be wary too.”

Both men stared into the fire, watching black move and shift over the glowing coals, as the quiet sounds of Haven packing it in for the night surrounded them. More distantly, an indecipherable, probably drunken, yell cut through the dark, followed by a woman’s laughter. Samhal’s fingers flitted through something that might have been a counting game and ended wound together.

“I can work with that.” He stood, brushed off the back of his coat, and walked out of the firelight in the direction of the small but private cabin his strange new status earned him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go, an update for my birthday. :-D
> 
> Edit: OMG OMG Kirkwallgirl on Tumblr made me birthday art of Samhal and her Inquisitor Eirien Trevelyan; go look at it! http://rederiswrites.tumblr.com/post/124172608826/kirkwallgirl-er-jumps-out-of-the-bushes-with


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, this one's graphic. Just want to warn you--a very nasty Walking Bomb and some not too graphic vomiting.

Samhal woke the next morning to the persistent _clang-crash-crash, clang-crash-crash_ of a striking team working in the makeshift armory. He’d insisted on a day to ‘survey his new realm’ before they headed back out, but in the moment he really wished he could just hide in his chilly little cabin. After all, though, he was a performer, and if he couldn’t come up with a little relish for this, the performance of a lifetime, then he might as well turn himself in and be hung.

Lining his eyes was a familiar, soothing ritual, requiring calm and careful attention. By the time he was done neatening his hair and applying a touch of oil to his lips, he felt ready for, as he thought of it, Step One: Neutralize Templar.

Hand on the latch, Samhal paused and squared his shoulders, straightening his carefully composed mask of authority. Satisfied, he opened the door and greeted the guards standing outside.

“Hello! Brisk morning, isn’t it? Why don’t we take a stroll, warm you fellows up?”

“Your Worship.” The older of the two—stubbled and grey, a retired soldier perhaps—moved forward.

“Oh, I think ‘ser’ is entirely adequate, don’t you?”

“As ser wishes.”

Samhal took off towards the sounds of sparring, repressing a mad giggle at the idea that being called ‘ser’ could pass for _modesty_ now. What they’d think in Tantervale—but then, he’d have to live to see them again.

When he passed with his escort people reacted variously, some bowing, others kneeling, still others whispering amongst themselves or eyeing him warily. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled, and he could almost feel the dagger in his back, but he kept his head high. One hand began tremoring uncontrollably, so he hooked it into his belt and added a touch more swagger to his step.

As he had hoped, he found Cullen supervising the training of new troops in the open space before the Chantry.

“Commander! Hard at work already I see.”

“New recruits have been coming in, but only a few of them have the faintest idea how to handle a weapon. If they’re to survive the next engagement, we have a great deal of work to do.” Cullen took a report from a woman in scout armor and Samhal watched him as he read.

“You saw me fight. I’m afraid much the same can be said of me.”

Cullen eyed Samhal over the report for a moment.

“Cassandra tells me that you have been training as well, though. With the elven apo—the, ah. The other elven apostate. You were surely trained by your clan?”

“Yes, of course. I was taught what was needed to keep me safe. No combat, though, really. And I hadn’t used magic in years.” Samhal widened his eyes a bit and stepped to the very edge of a carefully-judged personal bubble for the other man. 

“All the same, I worry that not everyone is happy to welcome me as the Herald. It worried me, being…all alone last night.”

“I understand your concern, but I’m sure Leliana vetted your guards thoroughly.”

Samhal sidled a touch further into Cullen’s space, close enough that he had to tilt his chin up to look at the other man’s face.

“I’d feel so much better with someone in the room. Someone strong and trustworthy. I never did like sleeping alone anyway. You?”

Cullen blinked down at Samhal and shuffled back a step.

“Ahh…w-we…before I became a knight we slept in dormitories, but I have…I had my own room after I became Knight-Captain. I…I suppose I had not given it much thought.”

“Man like you, I’m sure he wouldn’t have to sleep alone if he didn’t want to.”

Cullen flushed red from the roots of his hair to the line where his throat disappeared into his breastplate.

“I…ah—I don’t believe I would make as…fit a companion…ah. That is. I sleep poorly and rise early.”

Was the man actually…? Was he dense, or had Samhal misjudged something seriously? Samhal leaned past Cullen and put his hands on the table beside them, contemplating a training roster with no interest whatsoever and shifting his weight deliberately.

“What a shame. I would see my Commander fresh and well-tended. After all, you are so important to our success here.” 

“Ah. Y-yes. I…need to go.” Suiting actions to words, Cullen fled.

Well, that hadn’t gone particularly well. Why had the head of the most notorious mage prison in Thedas just responded to his offer like a blushing virgin? Scratch that, a _terrified_ virgin. A subtler approach, then. He rarely missed a mark, and he certainly wasn’t going to give up on this one.

……………………….

The trip out of the Frostbacks into Ferelden’s Hinterlands (“The Hinterlands? Really? We’re starting our quest for political power in a place actually called the Hinterlands? No, no problem. I’m sure it’ll be great.”) was cold and damp but uneventful. Samhal trained nightly with Solas and gained quickly in confidence and control with his few simple spells. Soon they would meet with this Mother Giselle and see if she had anything useful to say. After that, he couldn’t help thinking that their plans sounded a lot like, “Make stuff better…uhhh…somehow. Kill demons?”

Samhal was contemplating the immediate future in general and the dirty grey sky in particular with disfavor when the first sounds of fighting filtered up from below. There was a bellow and then the unmistakable crackle of magic, and Cassandra was off and running down the path, Varric on her heels. Solas turned to glance encouragingly at Samhal before following. Samhal made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a whimper, unlimbered his staff, and went after them.

He rounded the corner in time to see Cassandra pounding past a cluster of Inquisition scouts, currently under attack by—he paused, confused. Mages… _and_ templars, who were…also fighting each other?

Dropping into stance, Samhal took a deep breath and thought of Solas’ soft-spoken instructions. _Set the back foot, slightly turned out. Shift your pelvis forward to support the spine and let yourself feel rooted into the earth. Now cast--_ and a substantial fireball launched straight at the nearest enemy, a man in road-worn mage robes.

The man’s robes went up in a blaze and he immediately dropped his staff, screaming. A templar, spotting the advantage, whirled on him and ran him through between one rib and the next. Samhal’s breath froze as the mage slid backwards off the sword, scream transformed to a whistling gurgle. As he fell, his hair caught, rising and dancing in its own heat.

Samhal’s thoughts shattered into a thousand sharp fragments-- _hair a flaming corona—‘let it be a dance, a meditation; feel the energy’—I did that._ I did that _—everything’s lost, everyone dies_ \--and then something metallic pinged loudly nearby.

“Wake up, son!” The templar was yards away and closing fast. Varric’s next bolt snarled in the mail covering the man’s neck. Cassandra spun back and was sprinting his way, but she was far too far away.

The templar was bare steps away, almost in striking range, when Samhal came to life, swung the end of his staff up and planted it in the other man’s chest. He remembered nothing, none of his lessons past or present. He just _pushed_ , mind and body. 

First, the man’s breastplate bulged outwards, and then it tore open. Gobbets of flesh, bone, and viscera blasted outwards, sleeting against Samhal, as most of the right half of the templar’s body tore itself violently apart. The rest of the body slumped sideways and hit the ground wetly.

Samhal’s ears rang in the silence afterwards. The smell was appalling, and it clogged his lungs. His staff fell from numb hands, clattering against the stony ground. His arms were covered in the other man’s blood, and he could feel it on his face, cooling quickly. Moving stiffly, he stepped over to a drift of clean snow caught in a crevice and scooped up a handful, scrubbing at his face; another handful and then another, and the ground all around him was staining bright red.

“You alright, Fox? That was”—

“Get away! Get away from me!” Samhal threw out an arm wildly, and Varric swayed out of the path of the blow. He reached for another handful of snow, but his hands shook too violently and it slipped through his fingers still clean. The gorge rose in his throat, and then he was on his knees, heaving and retching as though he could expel the smell, the sight, as though he could purge himself of the reality.

Eventually he had lost everything there was to lose, and the spasms subsided. He spit, twice, to clear his mouth, and slowly stood. Everyone was still watching him, including one last ragged mage, hands bound and face tear-streaked.

“Are you well?” Cassandra held the subdued mage firmly by one arm.

“Fine. I’m fine.” Sahmal’s face was stony. “We should go back to camp, though. I doubt this is the impression you’d like me to make on your Mother Giselle.”

Cassandra nodded once and jerked on the mage’s arm, and they turned back up the path towards camp in silence.


	12. Chapter 12

When the group got back to camp, Samhal stripped, mechanically and silently, then bathed and re-dressed in the same bubble of solitude he had maintained since the fight. His second outfit, found for him on short notice, hung loose on his small frame.

Varric tried again to approach the elf as they turned back towards the crossroads.

“Look, Fox, if you need to talk…I know it’s tough”--. 

“Save it,” Samhal spat. He sped up, and Varric fell back with a sigh. Samhal wondered what the dwarf wanted—a savior or a friend. Either way he was bound to be disappointed—Samhal knew how to be neither. All he could do was go through the motions until he died or they left him alone, whichever came first.

There was more fighting before they reached the crossroads. Samhal broke silence to ask that they try to take prisoners, but otherwise fought mutely. Everyone was careful to stay between him and the enemy, and if he stuck to weakening and slowing spells, no one commented or complained. Two prisoners were taken back to camp, where they would be questioned and held until a contingent returned to Haven. The bodies of the fallen were left lie until an effort could be made to identify them before cremation. Samhal stood to the side and stared unseeing through the valley as Cassandra issued instructions.

The crossroads were a different kind of horror—the stench of human waste, blunted but not eliminated by the cold, lay over a scene of desperation and fear. Their group, heavily armed and evidently organized, was noticed immediately. The adults watched warily from positions next to haphazard piles of possessions, but first one, then four, and then a double handful of children swarmed around them. They reached out, touching, beseeching. Several seemed fascinated by Varric and his strange crossbow, and the dwarf was preoccupied with twisting around, batting at inquisitive dirty paws.

Most of the children were focused on Cassandra—tall, human, authoritative—and asked for food, for money, for help and protection. Cassandra slightly desperate calls for order were uniformly disregarded. One child, whose slighter build and pointed ears set her apart, gambled on kinship and tugged gently on Samhal’s sleeve.

“Please, ser…my little brother…do you have any food? He ent et today and he’s crying.”

His first instinct was to brush the offending hand off. His arm began the motion to shrug her off, but he stopped it short, staring at the thin face. All this suffering, for what? And they wanted _him_ to fix it. Let someone who had anything to give fix it. All he’d wanted was to be left along with the scraps of comfort he’d earned. Probably that was all she wanted, too. She had nothing—thin, dirty, ragged, and the idiot wasn’t even begging for herself. Nothing—she had nothing to bargain with, mattered to no one.

Cursing under his breath, Samhal unshouldered his pack and felt for the waxed cloth envelope that held his lunch. He had opened it and taken out a chunk of waybread for the girl when the other children noticed his action. The hard wafer had barely hit the girl’s hand before she was pushed aside by a larger human boy. There was a flurry of hands and shouting, at the end of which even the waxed envelope itself was gone. The victors scurried off with their prizes, leaving the smaller and less aggressive children and Samhal blinking at his empty hands.

“We need to fix this,” Samhal muttered.

“There are more supplies in camp. I will send a soldier to fetch you something to eat.”

Samhal shot Cassandra a venomous look. “ _Me_? How much more food? Not enough for everyone.”

The warrior’s eyes widened slightly, and she stared at him for a moment.

“Not. Not enough for everyone.”

“This—this is your fucking fault. Your fucking Chantry. Your fucking Circles and templars. Your fucking war.”

Cassandra jerked as if struck, but before she could gather herself to respond, Varric stepped between them.

“Hello, everyone! Not really the time or the place for this fascinating conversation. Alright?”

Both parties glared at the dwarf.

“Hey, Fox. You’ve got a lot on your mind. I get that. But maybe we could refocus. Talk to the nice Chantry lady, then maybe see what we can do for these people afterwards. We can go back to poking the Seeker tonight in camp if you want.”

Samhal glowered just a bit longer, and then his face shuttered again. “Of course.” His voice was flat and uninflected.

They found Mother Giselle in a makeshift infirmary, speaking softly with a wounded man on a cot. Samhal wrinkled his nose against the odor of suppurating wounds as he approached the woman.

Mother Giselle’s humble posture contrasted interestingly with her obvious political savvy. Samhal distrusted her immediately, but showed nothing but bland interest. Her “insider advice” was to capitalize on uncertainty and disorganization within the Chantry to weaken their opposition, though of course she didn’t put it quite like that. As far as it went, that seemed sound, but her suggested method was for him, _in person_ , to march into the heart of Val Royeaux and talk to the church mothers. Samhal held back the obvious objection that pointed ears and a tattooed face were hardly the best tools with which to win Orlesian hearts. He hoped that no one would be insane enough to actually expect him to walk into the city and put his neck in a noose so that a few old hens could decide whether he deserved to exist. All such thoughts stayed behind a smooth face, though, as he did his best to pry particulars and names out of the woman and she slid around him with platitudes and wasted motherly charm. He felt raw and bruised inside and out (the lacings of one boot were still hopelessly crusted with flaking blood, and his eyes kept drifting back to them), and was enormously glad when the conversation was over and he could get away.

He made his excuses to his companions, agreeing to meet them at the foot of the path back to camp, and then faded quietly into the background, watching and listening and thinking. Entire families huddled under a single blanket. A woman rocking and crying quietly while a man sat on the wall behind her and stared into space. The shards of a once-lovely ceramic pot ground into the dirt. Two men arguing in sharp whispers, gesticulating angrily. A girl with a baby on her hip, watching a group of other children kick around a rag ball. Nothing to feed the hungry soul of a lost hedonist, nothing to say home or comfort or safety, only the splinters of other broken lives.

When he rejoined the others, he kept his hood up and silenced Cassandra with a glance. He took his dinner into the tent he had been sharing with Solas, and pushed the bowl out of the flap when he was done. He could hear the others speaking around the fire, but made no effort to make out what they were saying. The bespelled palm itched, and he scratched at it irritably. The camp was silent and Solas breathing evenly beside him before he finally fell asleep.

……………..

Samhal found himself again on the rocky path into the valley, but this time he was alone. He flexed his fingers nervously and found that they stuck together. His arms were once again coated with blood. Blood ran off him, pooling around his boots. The puddle expanded rapidly, lapping against the bodies of the two apostates the templars had hunted down in Tantervale.

One of the two opened her eyes, rising disjointedly.

“It’ll be you, if you go back. There’s no going back.”

The other dead mage sat up stiffly.

“The Rifts are everywhere. There’s no more running.”

“Trapped.” The two mages crooned, smiling with bloodless lips. “Trapped. Trapped. Hunted down, like us, and caught. No one will help you. No one helped us.”

Samhal spat. “You’re not my fault. I didn’t know you. You’re not my fault.”

“But he is.”

A templar helmet rolled through the blood, fetching up against Samhal’s foot. Eyes stared accusingly up at him.

“He’s dead. You’re dead. And I’m alive. I’m still alive. Did you expect me to fall apart? I did what I had to, and I’ll do it faster next time. Try harder, assholes.” He kicked the helmet, and it soared off the edge of the path into nothing. He was alone on the path once more.

“You’re alive, but what of me?”

Samhal spun to confront the elven girl’s sunken eyes. As he turned, he found himself surrounded by gaunt children.

“You’re alive, too. The real you, anyway.”

“For how long? How long do you think scraps from your lunch will last me?”

“I’ll find a way. I’ll figure out something. I always do.”

Mocking laughter echoed around him.

“ _You?_ Little Fox? Little toy? Little puppet? You won’t. You can’t. No one can. There’s no solution to a thousand years of tyranny and misery. There’s nothing you can do to help me that won’t anger them more. And when you fail, they’ll know you for a fraud, _Herald of Andraste_. They’ll turn on you, every last one of them. You won’t hang, Little Fox. You will _burn_.”

The children danced around him, laughing gleefully, as their clothing sparked and flamed. Samhal drew in on himself, crouching and shying away as one child and then another danced closer.

“Give up now, Little Fox. Let us save you the pain and trouble. Infinitely better to give up now. You’re no hero, and you know it.”

Samhal’s eyes reflected the flames, and he bared his teeth.

“I’m no hero, no. But I think I’ll pretend a little longer, thanks. I don’t give up. You never got me before, and you won’t get me now, demon. Piss off.”

He stood up, fists clenched, and the children and their laughter disappeared in a swirl of ashen skirts. As he turned his feet down the path towards the valley, a flash of white drew his eye up the mountain slope. It was gone almost before he spotted it, but for just a moment, he thought he saw a huge white wolf.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Samhal finally has some fun. Cassandra might disagree, but at least we get a break from the angst.

The morning after their harrowing arrival in the Hinterlands, Samhal emerged from his tent smiling brightly. Varric’s worried regard and Cassandra’s obvious suspicion only entertained him. Over porridge and pine needle tea, he started a discussion of ways and means to help the refugees. Inevitably, though, it kept coming back to containing the conflict between the mages and templars in the area.

Nobody at the Crossroads had seemed to be at all clear on who was leading the fighting or what any of the combatants actually hoped to gain other than not losing. The scouts had found the going very dangerous and not made much headway. That left the prisoners. Thus far, they had collected two mages and one templar, each of whom was for the moment kept trussed and staked separately, the mages’ magic suppressed by Cassandra until better arrangements could be made.

At Samhal’s suggestion, he and Solas went to talk to the first mage—the one who had yielded in the first fight, after witnessing Samhal’s unpleasant display of power. Samhal shooed the guards out of earshot and then sat down cross-legged on the ground in front of the woman.

“Hello, I’m Samhal. Should I call you Lovely, or do you have a name?” The woman stared at him silently, and after a moment’s wait, he shrugged.

“Well alright then, Lovely. I’ll tell you about us a bit, and maybe after, you’ll tell us a bit about you. So. You probably noticed that somebody went and made a hole in the sky—we’re calling it the Rift. You’ve probably also heard, maybe seen, that suddenly there are a lot of little tears in the Veil, and demons are falling out—which I think we can all agree is a fairly shitty situation. Things are a mess around here, so you may or may not have heard that the whole party started when someone or something blew up Divine Justinia’s Conclave.”

The mage blanched and whispered a name under her breath.

“Oh dear. Did you have a friend there?”

Her voice cracked, whether from emotion or disuse. “Not a…yes. Yes, a friend, I suppose.”

“In that case, I’m very sorry to tell you that everyone in or near the Temple of Sacred Ashes died in the explosion.”

Her mouth worked, and Samhal was briefly silent while she digested the news.

“Everyone but me, actually. Sorry. I was there, and I don’t remember what happened, and the next thing I know, I’m waking up and they tell me I fell out of the Fade through a rift. The soldiers who saw it say there was a glowing woman behind me in the rift. Then it turns out I have this.” He held up his hand and willed a thread of energy into it so that the gash of green light sparked into life across his palm. The mage flinched at the unknown magic. “It closes rifts. Wasn’t quite enough to close the big one, but I stoppered it up, sort of. 

We’re hoping that with more power, we can close it for good, hopefully the smaller ones too. We came to the Hinterlands to try and scrape up some more power, but what we find is a Void-spawned mess. Mages and templars attacking everything that moves, farmers and children hurt and starving. Pretty much it’s a fucking disaster, right?”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” The woman’s eyes were glossy with unshed tears.

“You’re telling me! I only showed up in the first place because I was _curious_ , if you’ll believe it. There’s a lesson, if you want. But nothing’s like it was supposed to be. So what would be great is if you could help us understand what it _was _supposed to be like and then maybe we can start working towards that. Or not. But it’s a starting point.”__

__“What… _are_ you?”_ _

__Samhal blinked. “I’m not…really sure what answer you’re looking for here. I’m…an elf? A mage? It’s my unearthly good looks, isn’t it? I assure you, that’s not magic—just luck and some careful sculpting. But I understand the mistake.”_ _

__He restrained the urge to laugh as the woman stared at him incredulously._ _

__“No, I mean…I saw you fight, both of you, and it wasn’t like anything I was taught. You…you _blew that man up_!”_ _

__Samhal substituted a broad grin for the slight flinch he repressed at her words. “Oh, that. Well, Solas here and I were apostates before it was cool. No Circle training.”_ _

__Solas interjected. “What the Circles know of magic is less than that which they wrongly believe to be so, and nothing compared to what there is to know.”_ _

__“Then why do you fight for the Seeker?”_ _

__“Oh…ohhh! Oooh, no, I see the hangup. No, actually, she kind of fights for _me_. It’s complicated. My life has gotten very strange recently—I guess you know the feeling. But the short version is that I have the trick hand, so I”—_ _

__Samhal stopped short and blinked, long and slow. He twisted to stare at Solas, who only raised an eyebrow. He contemplated his left hand, opening and closing it several times._ _

__“Well fuck me. _I have the trick hand, so I have the power._ ”_ _

__And then his shoulders began to shake. A laugh built quietly in his throat until it burst out, bending him at the waist. He laughed until the entire camp was staring at them. He laughed until the tears ran down his face. He laughed until, with a final hiccough, he managed to pull himself together._ _

__“So, Lovely, I’m the Herald of Andraste, chosen by the glowy Fade lady and bequeathed the power to close the rifts. I’m in charge here. Also apparently I can blow people up, but I really, really do not enjoy it and I’d really rather not do it more than I have to. What I need from you is as much information about what we’re facing as you can come up with so we can try to sort this mess out. Hopefully with a minimum of blowing up.”_ _

__Slowly at first, and then more and more eagerly as she found her offerings well-received, “Lovely” (whose name turned out to be Liesl) began to talk. The chief scout—a local surfacer dwarf named Lace Harding—provided a map and her own knowledge, and Cassandra and Varric joined them when Samhal called._ _

__The trouble was that the mages in the area were actually holed up quite effectively in a cave off a narrow valley, the only entrance to which was easy to guard. Beyond that, this lot had broken away from the larger group in nearby Redcliffe because they wanted to be more proactive in the hunting of templars. At this point, the rule was kill on sight unless you could immediately identify yourself as a member of the group._ _

__“So what we need is a way to be as non-threatening as possible?” Varric blew a stray lock of hair out of his face. Liesl pulled a face._ _

__“Yes, but how? Everything is a threat. Everyone hates us now. Even the farmers would attack us if they dared.”_ _

__“Even other mages?” Samhal scowled thoughtfully._ _

__“We left on poor terms. Grand Enchanter Fiona called us angry children. Some of us said regrettable things.”_ _

__“But everyone can be made curious with the right bait.” Samhal worried at his lower lip. “We need the right bait to get their attention.”_ _

__Suddenly, his eyes lit and that dangerous grin spread across his face._ _

__“Never a better bait than that.”_ _

__…………………._ _

__Half an hour of vociferous argument and an hour and a half of hiking later, Liesl found herself standing across the valley from the cave where the rebel mages were headquartered. She was in the company of one extremely dour Seeker, one darkly amused bald elf, one broadly grinning dwarf, a handful of mortified scouts, and one entirely naked Herald of Andraste._ _

__“See? Very attention-getting, isn’t it?” Samhal smirked, twirling in a series of sinuous dance steps. Cassandra looked away reflexively as he came around to face her._ _

__“It is undignified and inappropriate.”_ _

__“A little body paint would be better, you’re right. Maybe some gold chains—I look so good in gold. But I’ll manage without.”_ _

__Cassandra snorted disgustedly. Varric laughed. “Oh, Hawke would love you, Fox. You are just her kind of crazy.”_ _

__“It is madness!”_ _

__“Oh Cassandra. I’ve got this, I promise. And you’re right here, and Solas is with me, and in a pinch I can always blow someone up.”_ _

__Samhal bounced on his toes and jerked his head at Solas before taking off across the valley. Solas, fully dressed and with his staff conspicuously displayed, followed with a chuckle._ _

__“Enjoying the view, are you?” Samhal flashed a smile over his shoulder._ _

__“The countryside here is quite lovely, yes.”_ _

__Samhal’s wild laughter echoed off the valley walls and he added an extra sway to the next few steps, letting motion ripple across his shoulders and down his arms as his feet pattered over cold stone. It felt good to control an audience again._ _

__A few yards outside the cave entrance, Samhal stopped, aware of eyes on his little performance._ _

__“Hello the camp! May we come in? We are fellow apostates and wish to speak with you.” He briefly summoned and then dismissed a flickering flame to prove his claim._ _

__There was a shifting and shuffling in the shadow of the cave entrance, but no one responded. Shrugging, Samhal resumed picking his way over the ground, Solas in his shadow. The rest stood in the open, visible but well back. Samhal paused at the cave mouth, hands spread, before striding in as though he were the guest of honor. The three mages gathered at the entrance fell back before him out of sheer astonishment, staffs held forgotten in front of them._ _

__Inside were only a handful more mages, several of whom might not have been out of their teens yet. A couple were visibly bandaged, and all were dirty. Further back, a couple of shapes lay on cots._ _

__“Good serahs! I am Samhal Lavellan, the Herald of Andraste. I mean you no harm and do not wish to threaten your freedom. I seek help healing the Rift in the sky. Someone told me that some of you might be getting a bit tired of burnt oatmeal and sleeping on rocks. We can try to do better, if you join our cause. Is anyone interested in parlaying?”_ _

__The first person to speak was a spotty boy, who blurted out, “Why are you naked?”_ _

__“To show that I conceal nothing and offer no threat.”_ _

__“Tricks and distractions”, spat a steel-haired woman, stepping to face Samhal._ _

__“True! Effective tricks! Here we are talking, after all. First couple of times we encountered you lot, you just attacked. Very unpleasant.”_ _

__The older woman snarled and stalked forward until she was less than a step from Samhal. Solas stepped forward, staff suddenly in hand, but Samhal stepped back, laughing lightly._ _

__“Ah, ah! Looking is free, but you have to pay to touch!”_ _

__“You attacked my people?”_ _

__“Please do pay attention. They attacked us. We have a couple of them safe and sound just across the valley. You’re very welcome to talk to them, but why don’t we sit and chat, first?”_ _

__“We have nothing to say to a world that wants us dead or chained.”_ _

__“You say that, but one, I could have just had you wiped out if I wanted you dead, and two, I’m not so sure everyone here agrees with you any more. But if you don’t mind, I think I’ll get dressed now. Valuable parts of me are turning to ice.”_ _

__Half an hour later, Solas gave the signal for Varric, Cassandra, and the captured mages to join the discussion. An hour later, the mages who had been haunting the Witchwood and terrorizing refugees overruled their erstwhile leader and joined the Inquisition without further bloodshed._ _


	14. Chapter 14

That evening, Solas quietly slipped away from the fire as the others chatted and cleaned dinner dishes. He did not go far from camp—it would not do to be missed—but his head needed clearing.

_The Little Fox_ indeed. A difficult element. All his first images of the man were small and limp, unconscious and dying, surrounded by enemies. He strove not to let that color his view of Samhal—no, the Herald—but that fragility kept bobbing to the surface for one with eyes to see. Brittle. The boy was brittle. Bold, determined, surprisingly quick and curious, clever, daring—all of these things, but also brittle. He had nothing but himself, and not the years of practice at that which Solas could claim. He had done well against Despair, but the well on which the demon had drawn was deep.

He would need to learn to reach out to others. The thought was bitter laughter to Solas, but true nonetheless. This was not a task for one person. He would need to learn trust and take guidance.

By the time Samhal came to bed, Solas was in his bedroll, eyes closed, muscles relaxed. Samhal undressed without comment and crawled under his blankets quickly to stave off the cold he so disliked. Solas thought again of him earlier, lips and nails shading to purple but not touching the laughter in his face or the dancer’s grace with which he moved. It had been an astonishing performance.

And the invitation in those eyes. It was always there; frank appreciation and arrogance in equal parts. Solas smiled to think of the way Samhal leaned into his hand whenever Solas corrected his posture during lessons. As if a trained dancer would be so slow to find his body in space. He admired the subtlety—and the form—but no. No; the risk of entanglement was too great.

“Solas?” The quiet question was abrupt in the stillness of the tent.

“Yes, lethallin?”

“Can you…” Samhal hesitated, unwontedly unsure. “Could you show me a little…I wouldn’t ask, but you said you could show me, maybe, some of the things you see in the Fade?”

Solas was silent for a moment, thinking.

“Never mind. It was…sorry, never mind.”

“I apologize. I was caught unawares, nothing more. What did you hope to see?”

Samhal hesitated, breath catching slightly.

“You said…you asked me…what kind of hero I would be. Varric said I was like Hawke. But Hawke, she…she lost so much. I thought if—no, it’s silly. Sleep. Forget it.”

“It does no harm to ask, and curiosity is a credit.”

“I thought maybe sometime you could show me other heroes.”

Samhal sounded so lost—naked in a way he had not for a second been earlier—and Solas’ heart tightened.

“I believe that might be managed here, yes. It is an understandable desire.” Solas caught the flash of teeth in moonlight as Samhal relaxed into a smile.

“You need only sleep. I will be nearby, and we will find each other.”

“Really? Because that’s never—I never did that before.”

“And are you the expert now, da’len?”

Samhal made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a snort into the darkness of the tent.

“Ir abelas, _ha’hren_ ”

Ah, there was the sarcasm. Better.

“Have faith.”

Samhal blew a long raspberry at that, earning a chuckle from Solas.

“Sleep, da’haril.”

“Whatever that means,” Samhal grumbled, rolling over to face the tent wall and tugging a tail of his coat down over his head.

…………………….

It was midday in the Fade, the more distant edges of the Hinterlands blurring away into sun-tinted dust motes. Samhal looked first at his hands, and, finding them clean and well-tended, relaxed a shade. The landscape was empty, the tents and patrols of the Inquisition camp stripped away, and late winter replaced with verdant summer.

“We will need to travel some distance from here. Are you prepared?”

Samhal turned his head with a start to find Solas looking down the valley, looking just as he had in the waking world save that his jacket was gone, sleeves rolled up to bare pale, toned forearms. His eyes traveled up slowly to find Solas looking at him, eyebrow raised.  
“Right. Yes, just let me just get my dream-pack. Of course I’m ready.”

“Shall we ride, then?” Solas gestured, and Samhal turned to find that two halla were standing just to the side, cropping the foliage patiently. Samhal laughed softly.

“How…?”

Ignoring the question, Solas swung up onto one of the halla gracefully, and Samhal sprang to follow. Solas guided his mount down the incline with a few delicate nudges of his knees and Samhal’s halla followed placidly. When they reached more level ground, the two halla picked up speed until the landscape around them became little more than a blur. They wove through the empty crossroads and down narrow valleys until the path widened out to a more substantial road and a town came into sight ahead of them. The halla slowed to a ground-eating walk, hooves dainty on the packed-earth road.

“Redcliffe,” Solas announced as they passed under the town gate. “Ten years ago if I am not mistaken.”

Samhal looked up sharply. “Ten…”

As they moved deeper into the town, soft-edged images of people began to appear, moving tensely but purposefully as the sun touched the hills to the west and bled red-gold along their ridges. The halla sidled nervously as they reached the crowd in the town square, but no one took note of either mounts or riders. People milled through the square in a flurry of organized chaos, most armed and armored with an odd assortment of gear—new, old, and makeshift. More than a few bandaged limbs were in evidence, as if this town had already seen fighting. People spoke, but only an indistinct hum communicated itself to the dreamers. Barricades were being hastily erected.

A lake spread to one side of the square, boats tethered to the docks. One cluster of people, gathered just above the wall separating harbor from square, caught Samhal’s eye. No villagers, these, not from the way they carried themselves nor from the posture of the villagers towards them. They were more sharply realized, as well, as though the spirits paid them more attention. The first to catch the eye were two massive warriors in full plate, each with an absurdly large sword strapped across his shoulders. One was dark-skinned with white hair bound into tight cornrows, the other only slightly shorter but with brilliant orange-red hair and full beard. Samhal ran his eyes across a dark-haired angular woman with a mage staff, a dwarf with hair much the same flame-red as the second warrior’s, and a blonde elf in light leathers. Slightly to the side stood an archer, by the bow on her back. This last turned, and suddenly he saw her face.

“ _Is that Leliana?_ ”

“It would appear so, yes.”

“Damn, she shoulda kept the old armor.” Samhal grinned appreciatively.

“I am sure she would value your input on the subject,” Solas said dryly. “Come. If I am not mistaken the battle will begin soon, and we will wish a higher vantage.”

As Samhal’s halla followed the other up the hillside, he twisted to look back at the group by the wall. Tavern tales, a stylized statue of a bearded man overlooking the square in Amaranthine…he tried to make out the rest of the companions, but dusk and shifting forms made it difficult.

A few minutes after Solas had settled on a spot on the hill overlooking Redcliffe, the oddly-assorted group came up the path behind them. Samhal scanned faces quickly, and this time added a mage with her grey hair pulled into a no-nonsense bun, a shorter, dark-haired mage whose generous curves contrasted with the angles of the first woman he had noticed, two mabari war hounds, and bringing up the rear one last warrior, head thrown back in incongruous laughter.

“Fucking…” 

Samhal’s mount twitched under him as he peered through the gloom, trying to match idealized woodcuts to living faces.

“It is! Fucking Void, Solas, is that the king of Ferelden?”

“Not at this juncture, but yes.”

“So then these…Creators, Solas, but you deliver.”

The heroes of Ferelden arrayed themselves behind a hastily-erected barrier of fence-posts and barrels with the ease of familiarity. The warriors took up stations nearest the barrier, spaced wide, with the dogs flanking the ends and the red-bearded giant in the center. The blonde elf paced behind, a blade in each hand, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. To the rear the three mages stood stave’s-length apart, Leliana seeking a higher vantage a bit to the side, nearest where Solas and Samhal watched. 

When the first wave of undead came shambling out of the dark, Samhal was too horrified to catch which mage lit the barrier, sending red light dancing over the nightmare scene. The undead plowed through uncaring, only to be cut down still flaming on the other side.

Samhal, having never seen fighting on this scale, quickly lost track of the overall flow of the battle. The action broke down into a succession of moments. The whirling madness of the dwarf, a limb spinning away from the brutality of his attack, mouth fixed in a wide snarl. Leliana he registered mostly as the repeated thwack of the bow string. The future king fought doggedly, defensively, staying nearer to the mages than the other warriors. The calm, cold motions of the three mages, untouched and unhurried, hands and staves spinning healing, cold, fire, and…was that entropy? Yes, from _two_ of them! He glanced at Solas, who watched the fighting impassively.

A flurry of concern amongst the mages drew his attention back to the huge redhead, who had sprouted a sword through a gap in his shoulder armor. Before Samhal even started feeling properly horrified, the elf appeared behind the undead culprit, downed it with a flurry of blows too fast to catch, and crushed its neck with an efficient knee. The elf shot the human a glance that looked almost scolding, and the warrior, _laughing_ , tore the sword out of his own flesh and hurled it, spear-like, _through_ the skull of an approaching skeleton. A glow of healing caught him a second later, but the elf was already gone.

“ _That’s_ Aedan Cousland! Maker’s balls, I thought it was just _stories_. He’s insane!”

“Challenging times forge remarkable individuals.”

“Remarkable. Remarkable, you say. He got impaled and he laughed. How many times do you think a person needs to be stabbed before it’s _funny_?

The fighting was just dying down when a breathless villager crested the last rise of the path up from Redcliffe, gesticulating frantically. Some unseen communication passed, and the group split, the bulk of them hurrying down the hill, leaving the thin mage, the white-haired giant, and one of the mabari to clean up the fighting where they were.

“Shall we follow the leaders?” Without waiting for an answer, Solas kneed his halla down the path, spine swaying with the thoughtless grace of long practice. Still unseen and unremarked, they passed the grim-faced giant, whose expression had not varied once so far as Samhal had noticed.

The fight was joined again in the town square, but the new location allowed a better vantage, so that now Samhal and Solas stood halfway up the hill, watching the fighting from above. As he watched, Samhal began to better discern the overall patterns of the battle.

“Well,” Samhal drawled, “So far what I determine from my investigation of heroism is that if you are an enormous, psychotic human man, trained from birth to lead warriors in battle and bearing the name of one of the most powerful houses in your country, then people will listen when you bark orders. You’ll forgive me, I hope, if I don’t find this very useful information.”

“Is that what you see, then?”

Samhal scowled at the implied criticism, but turned his attention back to the scene below them. Indeed, a few more minutes contemplation revealed a deeper pattern. Yes, Cousland was directing the villagers as they fought the undead, but Samhal saw no evidence that he was ordering his companions. And yet they responded quickly and with coordination as the situation shifted, as if skillfully guided by some force he had not yet spotted. He narrowed his eyes and hunted faces, searching for clues.

“It’s her! There, on the steps, the short mage! But how is she directing them?”

“There is a spell, though I wonder at her knowing it. I did not think it taught in circles.”

“When she touches her throat like that?”

“Yes. You see that Cousland is reacting now.”

“Well fuck me sideways. Cousland’s just window dressing! They’re all dancing to her tune!”

“He is a formidable warrior and hardly a decoration, but yes, he bows to her leadership.”

“But who is sh…surely not. No. It’s too rich.”

Abruptly, the square was clear of enemies, the last skeleton cut down. The future King Alistair broke position and hurried to the steps, reaching for the woman there. Distance and dark obscured the couple’s expressions, but nothing could hide the tenderness and concern in his motions. 

“Holy Andraste’s saggy paps. Aedan Cousland, warden-commander of Ferelden, hero of the Fifth Blight, bronze statues ten feet tall—and the mind behind it all is the king’s mistress. Fucking incredible.”

In the square below, Cousland had hefted the blonde elf over one shoulder like a prize, and was mugging enthusiastically to the villagers while the dwarf roared with laughter. Alistair’s arm was draped protectively over his lover’s shoulders and his face turned towards her, but her attention remained turned outward to the crowd below. As Samhal watched, she touched her throat yet again. Still issuing orders, then.

“What fruit does your investigation now yield, Herald?”

Samhal stared down into the square pensively. The grey-haired mage and a man whose clothing marked him as nobility were directing the effort to bring wounded into the Chantry.

“Well, I discovered that I need to know that talking spell. And we could use a few supplemental giant crazy fuckers and a spirit healer.”

Samhal glanced over to find Solas studying the scene below.

“…aaand I learned that there’s more than one way to be a hero.” Solas turned his attention to his companion.

“And that posturing is necessary?”

……………………

When Samhal woke the next morning, Solas’ slight approving smile was the first thing he remembered. Snorting impatiently, he snaked an arm out of the blankets to grab his pants and get ready for another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Da'haril--At least arguably, haril means "opposition", and da' is a diminutive prefix, thus Da'haril = Little Contrary One. Thank you to Schrodanger on Tumblr for the language help!
> 
> Wish I coulda been in your brains watching this one unfold. I had a little too much fun...


	15. Chapter 15

In the morning, the templar prisoner spat on Samhal and responded no better to Cassandra’s efforts at interrogation. The next days were spent combing the countryside both for resources for the refugees and the templar base of operations. The first yielded much better fruit than the second. They delivered a cartful of goat meat to feed the hungry and sent the scouts out in groups of five to cautiously forage for what roots the season had to offer. The mages turned over the locations their stashes of looted household goods, which went straight to warming and clothing the needy in the crossroads. Samhal carefully saved out and hand-delivered two cloaks--too shabby and torn to attract attention, but thick and warm--to the elven girl and her little brother. They encountered only small groups of templars, but did not succeed in taking any of them alive. Whatever of their training they may have abandoned, they clearly clung to the directive to fight to the death and yield to no opposition.

By the fourth day, the templar was behaving noticeably strangely. Where before he was silent, now he rambled when interrogated, frequently repeating himself. He was obsessed with insects and was convinced that giant spiders were infesting the camp. He seemed much more interested in carefully remembering some childhood crush than in helping them find the templar base, but in contrast to the previous days he was almost distressingly loud.

“What’s wrong with him?” Samhal scowled around a mouthful of thin gruel.

Varric glanced doubtfully at Cassandra, who made a small dissatisfied noise in her throat.

“It is the lyrium. We have given him none. We have none in camp.”

“Lyrium?” Samhal mumbled the word before swallowing and trying again.

Cassandra frowned fiercely at the bowl in her lap before speaking.

“I suppose you have a need to know. Templars…you are aware, of course, that they possess abilities which allow them a measure of control over mages and demons. A templar’s abilities come from lyrium. But the lyrium is also a leash in the hand of the Chantry. Without it, he will suffer…perhaps even die. He will need to be taken to Haven soon. The ambassador has secured a source of lyrium for the templars who have joined our cause.”

Samhal stared over his bowl at the templar with revulsion, idly flicking the spoon back and forth between his fingers.

“They’re all addicts?”

“They are given no alternative.”

“Sorry, I didn’t realize there were roving groups of armed warriors wandering the countryside hunting people down and forcing them to become templars.”

“They wish—wished—to serve their faith. It is a sacrifice. I would not expect you to understand.”

“Good. Don’t hold your breath.”

………………

A bit of good fortune later that day led to the discovery of a letter which helped them pinpoint the location of the templar stronghold. Scout Harding reported that the site, while not as highly defensible as the mages’ cave, could only be approached from one end of a steep gully.

“You won’t get at them without a nasty fight. They’ve dug in well.” The dwarf’s freckled face was crinkled in concern as she spoke to Samhal.

“We could always try not fighting. Worked surprisingly well last time.” Samhal stuck out his jaw and looked around the table with a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Lethallin,” Solas began warningly.

“No, of course not like that; I’m not actually insane. Cassandra here tells me they’re templars because of their great devotion to their faith. Well, I’m the Herald of Andraste, aren’t I? Send me and the Right Hand in first, you can be right behind. Puff me out a bit and I’ll wave the glowy hand at them. Test Cassandra’s contention.” Samhal glared at the Seeker across the table.

“Um, I’m not sure…” Harding trailed off, looking between the two.

Solas tried again. “Lethallin, perhaps we could discuss this quietly? Emotion may cloud”—

“Oh fuck me, _ha’hren_ did I ask you, did I ask you, did I _ask you_? Do you people want me to lead you or not? Cassandra thinks her templars are such righteous men and women. Poor babbies, they just don’t know what to do now that everything’s changed. Give them a firm hand and they’ll come ‘round. Isn’t that right, Boss Lady?”

“I…agree that they should be given a last opportunity to do as they ought.” Cassandra looked as though she wasn’t sure of any such thing, but didn’t know what else to answer.

“Alright, then it’s decided! We’ll go in first and given them their big chance to be something besides rabid animals. You guys are backup when things go to shit.”

A muscle ticced in Solas’ jaw. Samhal smiled at him sweetly.

……………………..

The atmosphere was tense and uncertain as they prepared to approach the renegade templars . Samhal was doing his best imitation of a stiff-necked Marcher noble, and had roughly pushed away both Varric and Cassandra's overtures. Solas thought it likely that no one but he caught the trembling in Samhal's hands when, in brief moments, they fell lax at his sides. He swore to himself at the reflexive defiance that fueled this ill-advised risk. 

At some point in Samhal's past the normal bonds of human trust and kinship had clearly been snapped. "Ex-Dalish", he said, with magic in his blood and bitterness on his tongue, and it was not so hard to imagine the cause. Now he trusted no one, would take no one's advice, and who could blame him? He recognized no authority but power and the threat of it, obeyed no leash—

Solas’ step stuttered. 

No leash but one, and that he was surely well trained to. Proud of, even. When the stakes were so high, was it so inexcusable to take an opportunity already freely offered? One that would be a pleasure to both parties?

The thought was unworthy. He dismissed it ruthlessly and turned his attention back to the matter at hand.

As planned, Samhal and Cassandra led the assemblage, walking a stone’s throw ahead of Varric, Solas, Harding, and a carefully chosen handful of Inquisition troops. The two leaders stopped well before the first barrier, and even at this distance, Solas could clearly hear Samhal’s carefully cultured tones, pitched to carry.

“Parlay! We seek to parlay. I am the Herald of Andraste, marked by Her touch, and with me stands the Right Hand of Divine Justinia, blessed be her memory. We would speak with your leaders.”

After a few tense moments, two heavily armored men emerged, a pair of archers stepping out behind them and stopping just beyond the first barrier. The man in the lead carried his helmet under his arm, baring a blonde head and scornful face. Perhaps a dozen paces away from Cassandra and Samhal he stopped, the other man hulking large behind him, and looked Samhal over from head to toe with lip curled.

“Well! The little rabbit has high aspirations. Cute! Well, Rabbit, sorry to disappoint but we don’t have leaders now, and we don’t intend to have any in the future. Certainly not jumped-up knife-eared Robes. Tell the Maker hello from Berthold.”

“Does that count as devotion to faith, Cassandra? Because I think it’s all we’re getting.” 

Samhal began a spell just as Berthold slapped on his helmet and the templar archers let loose. The Inquisition troops leapt forward, Solas and Varric behind them. An arrow flew past Solas’ shoulder from Scout Harding’s bow and slipped neatly into the gap between cuirass and pauldron on the second templar, and at the same time Cassandra leapt sideways and flung her shield over Samhal just in time to deflect the first barrage of arrows. Samhal’s casting swirled around Berthold, seeking and clinging.

The next moments carried, for Solas, the weight of inevitability. Berthold shrugged off Samhal’s spell with an incoherent roar of rage. Samhal leapt back with a surprised shout while Cassandra lunged forward to intervene between the combatants. Before she could reach Berthold, the man shook off the last of Samhal’s spell and, with a bellow, thrust one hand out. A shimmering cone, visible as a distortion of the view behind it, erupted from his hand. It flowed over and around Cassandra, who continued to move forward unaffected, and expanded rapidly towards Samhal.

Solas could see Samhal’s body convulse as the Silence struck, could see him curl inward around the sudden hollowness. He watched for a beat to see if their training would hold-- _fall back, regroup—fall back!_. Nothing. Samhal showed no awareness of his surroundings as the the rest of the templars drew closer. There was a telling slackness to his muscles, an aimlessness to his small motions, and Solas did not need to see his face to read their meaning. _Damn_ the boy for recklessness; this was exactly what he had feared.

“Fenhedis! Out! Get him out now!” Solas ran forward but Cassandra was far nearer. After a quick glance at the Herald’s face, she bolted back and simply scooped him up, slinging his slight body back and over one shoulder. As she retreated, a pair of Inquisition troops stepped between her and the rebel templars.

The fighting was ugly after that, but fortunately they had overestimated how many templars remained. As predicted, every last templar went down fighting, but the Inquisition soldiers acquitted themselves admirably and Cassandra fought like a lion. No troops were lost on the Inquisition side, though there were several nasty wounds, one serious. As the whole began tending to the wounded, Solas turned his attention to Samhal, who huddled with his arms around his knees where he had been dropped at the beginning of the fight.

Samhal didn’t look up as Solas’ shadow fell across his arms.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“And what do you believe I intend to say?”

“That I fucking lost it. That you tried to tell me it was a bad idea. That I failed.” The younger man's voice was high and strained.

Solas watched the quick, shallow rise and fall of Samhal’s back, observed the tension in his clasped knuckles. With a sigh, he folded his legs neatly to sit next to the younger man.

“The fight is over. You are safe now. Your magic will recover. Can you feel it now?”

Samhal shook his head shortly, roughly.

Solas hesitated a breath longer and then reached out, draping his hand over the exposed nape of Samhal’s neck. The touch of soft skin and fine, silken hairs was almost electric, and he nearly snatched his hand back, his error recognized. In the space between thought and action, Samhal leaned up into the touch gratefully, and the link was forged.

The two sat silently together, the tension slowly draining out of Samhal’s muscles, until the rest of the party was ready to head back to camp.

………………….

Clouds had covered the moon, casting the interior of the tent into deep darkness. Samhal worked carefully by feel, reassembling the contents of his pack as silently as he could manage with shaking fingers. There was already much more in it than had usually been the case—several elfroot potions, a packet of smoked meat, other odds and ends he’d seen the opportunity of palming in the haze of dusk. He eased through the back of the tent and carefully lifted pack and cloak after himself.

He had just passed the first line of trees and reached the deeper darkness of the woods when he was arrested by a quiet cough behind him. As he turned, the moon peeped through and highlit Solas, standing just beyond the trees with his hands clasped behind his back. 

“Will you stop me?”

“Yes.”

They watched each other warily. Solas’ eyes flared momentarily in the moonlight.

“Would you truly go again, then?”

“Yes! No. Yes.” Samhal sagged. “I can’t do this. You saw. Everyone saw. I told you all, you’ve got the wrong man. You heard the templar. That’s what everyone’s going to say.”

“And the rifts?”

“Fuck, I don’t know. I don’t know how I do it anyway. I can’t possibly be the only person in Thedas that can close them. That’s not how the world works. A real god wouldn’t actually reach out and pick the worst possible person for the job. No gods care about us.”

“Then surely it is left to us to care for each other.”

“I _can’t_! Can’t you see that?” Samhal’s voice cracked before he could stop himself, and he gulped air to regain his composure.

“I see no such thing. We will need to determine what precipitates your attacks so that we can strive to avoid those conditions in future, yes, but the Inquisition still carried the day.”

“Without me.” Samhal fought the desire to swab at his running nose with a sleeve and hoped that the darkness hid him well enough.

“Are you under the impression that heroes are always victorious?”

“Usually either that or dead.”

“I do not think you will find victory out there.”

Samhal turned to regard the barren winter woods silently. Turning back, he kicked out viciously at a root.

“Fuck dammit. ‘Mama, tell me the one about the rabbit whore who thought he was the Chosen of Andraste. That one’s so funny.’ Can’t even fucking run away right.”

Solas waited until Samhal passed him and followed him back to the tent without further comment.


	16. Chapter 16

The next day dawned grey but milder than the ones before, as if the land itself drew a breath of relief to see the worst of the fighting ended. Samhal, however, remained a lump under his blankets, a tail of his cloak pulled over his eyes to block the light. Breakfast was served and half-eaten, Cassandra pacing fretfully and eyeing Samhal’s tent flap, when Varric decided to intervene.

“Rise and shine, Fox!” He nudged the lump of blankets with a heavy boot.

“Suck my dick,” came the muffled reply.

“Thanks, but Bianca’s the jealous type. I think Seeker’s gonna start punching things if you don’t come out soon though. Come on, up and at ‘em; the humans are just going to keep lousing things up if we don’t help them.” 

“What, help them louse things up? I’ve got that covered.”

Varric sighed heavily. “Is that what…look. Get out there before Cassandra comes in after you, and I’ll tell you a story while you eat your breakfast.”

Samhal made a noise Varric decided to take for assent, and the dwarf left him to pull himself together.

When Samhal finally emerged from the tent, Varric met him with a treenware bowl of porridge and a steaming mug of pine-needle tea.

“Come on, pull up a log. Let me tell you a story about Hawke.”

Across camp, Cassandra perked up and wandered nearer, taking a sudden and unconvincing interest in the requisitions reports. Solas glanced up from repairing his jacket briefly before looking back at his work.

“The problem with Hawke was that she always believed that people could be good. Not necessarily that they would, but that they could.”

Varric took a pull on his mug, momentarily lost in memory.

“This particular mess started out as a favor to First Enchanter Orsino—mages and templars sneaking out at night and meeting in secret, and he needs us to see what they’re doing before Meredith finds out, for damage control. Mages and templars working together in Kirkwall—who’d believe it, right? So already the whole thing stinks to the Maker, but Orsino’s a good guy and his back’s to the wall, so we check it out.

Well, they were meeting alright. This templar, Ser Thrask, had carefully recruited them over the years, trying to oust Knight-Commander Meredith, and Maker knows Hawke was all for that. But as you are very aware, people are awfully fond of their own assumptions. As soon as we showed, they attacked. Why people continued to attack Hawke after a while, I can’t imagine—very bad for the health. She never started the fight but she’d always finish it.

But the shit only got deeper from there. One by one, out come the players, the conspirators, and they’re virtually all people we’ve helped before. Decent people, a lot of them, with noble intentions. You’d think that would count for something. You’d think you’d be set. But once you turn down the wrong path, it’s so hard to come back. Somewhere along the line, someone got the idea that Hawke would be more likely to cooperate with a little…extra incentive. I don’t even know how they got their hands on him, but we finally track Thrask and the others to the coast, and there’s Carver Hawke, trussed up and dead to the world on the sand. She did nothing but help them all, took some pretty enormous risks to do it, and they kidnapped her brother. I really thought better of Thrask. I really did.

For a minute there I thought she’d just eat them all where they stood. But she held it together…she gave them _every_ chance. And some of them did back down…maybe even most of them would’ve, but…oh, what was her name? Greta? Grace! This girl Grace, she was too far gone. I guess I don’t exactly blame her, the things she’d seen, but she was beyond reason. She flipped and went to kill Carver—Maker, that boy has the worst shitting luck—and Thrask tried to stop her. Died for his efforts. Probably the best damn templar in that hole.

We did manage to save Carver, but that’s about the best that could be said of that whole clusterfuck. Thrask died, Grace died, half a dozen other mages died, templars that might have actually protected mages died, and my best coat got ruined. All because decent people couldn’t see when someone was trying to help them.”

He paused and tugged the fire poker out of the ground to rearrange the fire before sitting back and looking straight at Samhal.

“I asked Hawke once whether she was ever going to stop trusting people like that, stop gambling her neck on the goodness of others. She said she hoped it never got that bad.”

Varric stopped speaking and held Samhal’s eye, watching for a response.

“Well. Thank you for that incredibly uplifting little tale. Of course, if you think that my besetting flaw is an abundance of faith in humanity, you have _not_ been paying attention.”

But Varric thought that maybe Fox moved a little more lightly after that, and he didn’t mind.

…………………

The weather stayed mild for several days after that, and the companions moved around the Hinterlands helping where they could and spreading word of the Inquisition. While ‘routine’ would definitely not have been the right word, Samhal began to become accustomed to the new shape of things. He didn’t stop hating roots in his back at night, but he stopped noticing them quite so much. He didn’t stop hating fighting, but he did get better at it. And while it would be saying a great deal too much to say that Samhal began to trust his companions, he did begin to feel that he knew what to expect of them. You couldn’t trust people to be what you needed them to be, but you could generally trust them to be what they were.

The day was sunny and almost balmy, one of those rare days in winter where the wise farmer checks his bees and doesn’t open his root cellar, and the group was riding high on having finally secured access to the horses the Inquisition badly needed. As they sat on a promontory overlooking Ferelden farmland and ate a cold lunch, Samhal was feeling smug and fueled by the prospect of a return to Haven and a proper bed. He was in a mood to enjoy the way the sun glorified the browns and greys of winter and limned them in gold.

Varric broke the comfortable silence. “Hey Fox, why do you always say you ‘used to be’ Dalish? What’s the story? What are you if not Dalish?”

“Taking notes for your next bestseller? Well I guess if the templars come for me now we’ll just kill ‘em some more, so why not. Boss Lady’s not going to be thrilled, though.”

“You had the qualifications we needed. You can seal the rifts, and you do.” Cassandra shrugged, dismissing the rest as trivia. 

“How much do you know about how the Dalish handle mages, then?”

Varric mused. “Well, I knew a slip of a girl who was First in her clan before she left. The Keeper’s a mage, and the First is sort of apprentice Keeper, right? But that’s about my limit.”

“That’s a start. The Keeper, the First, and then there’s the Second. Buuut…no Third. So if you’re the fourth mage in the clan, you’re out, at least in my clan.”

“Such an…enlightened practice,” Solas drawled.

“Ehhh—they want to be the good guys. Too many mages attract templars, though. Clan Lavellan has more contact with humans than some. They sent away to whatever other clans they could find to see if any of them needed a second. No one did. But our Keeper was a progressive soul, so for a couple of years she used me as a sort of ambassador to the humans—send me into the city to trade for manufactured goods, maybe get concessions or negotiate, smile winsomely and keep the clan from being chased off closer to human settlements. Every time I came back, though, the clan got a bit more restless. Few years back they gave me a pack and a cloak and wished me good luck.

So. Ex-Dalish. Formerly of the Dalish elves. Just an elf now, with fancy tattoos. Good riddance.”

There was an uncomfortable silence as everyone tried to think of something appropriate to say. Samhal chuckled.

“Ahhh, I love the sound of everyone swallowing their tongues at once. Neither the heir nor the spare, so off goes me. Old news.”

Finally, Cassandra set aside her trail biscuit and leaned forward. “But then, what did you do? Where did you go? All you told us before was that you were spying for Clan Lavellan at the Conclave. If you weren’t with them anymore…?”

“Well. They asked me to. I was the Shem expert, after all.” He grinned mirthlessly. “I had them pay me. Learned my Shem lessons well enough.”

“I see. That leaves some years yet unaccounted for, though, does it not?”

“Cassandra. Will you be happy if I say I lived in the wilds and fed off dreams and acorns, like Solas here?”

“Only if it is true.”

“The truth won’t set well with your mental image of the precious Herald.” An astute observer would have caught the wicked glint in Samhal’s eye.

“I do not need a pretty story. I am satisfied of your qualification with the evidence of my own eyes.”

“Alright then. Remember you asked for it.” He paused, anticipation pulling the corners of his mouth.

“I was a whore.” 

A cricket took the opportunity of silence to sound off nearby. A hawk screamed in the middle distance. Samhal grinned, displaying those sharp canines.

“Mmmh. A fancy whore. An _entertainer_ , if you prefer. You know, the kind of entertainer you take home at the end of the party. I went straight to Tantervale and asked around ‘til I had a lead on the classiest Madame in town, and she signed me up right away. Who could resist this face?” He twisted to show a profile and arched an elegant eyebrow.

“You…jest.” Cassandra managed at last.

“Not a bit. Little Fox, most sought-after arm-decoration in the city. I sing. I dance. Went to all the best parties. Mercenary captains splurged to show me off.”

“But…but why?” The ‘why’ was a plea. Muffled laughter came from Varric’s direction at Cassandra’s expression.

“It could’ve been because I was young and angry and liked sex a great deal, or it could’ve been because dreams and acorns didn’t sound very sustaining and a life of grinding poverty in the alienage wasn’t appealing. Or because I like nice things and rich people have nice things. Pick whichever you like. They’re equally true.”

He looked around at the group, the corners of his mouth pinched tight on repressed laughter. “Ah, the look on your face, Seeker. Every bit as good as I imagined.”

“So…you were joking?,” Cassandra tried.

“No. But it’s funny anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter's a little short. Spent a lot of time and mental energy this week getting my soul crushed by Bioware, you know, like you do. Next one's going to be up sooner than usual though.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Throws chapter at you and hides under couch*

Varric sat tenderly buffing the day’s scratches out of Bianca’s arms as Samhal sprawled on the powdery winter grass next to him, watching the edges of the clouds turn pink.

“So, Fox, you…uh…what about your family? I mean, you had family in the clan, right?”

“Are they family if they watch you leave and don’t say anything? No, no family.”

Varric grunted and rotated Bianca to get at a different side of the arms. Samhal continued to contemplate the sky.

“You know, I don’t mean to butt in, but it’s not always that simple. Family, I mean. I should know.”

“Simple enough for me. I’m on my own and I don’t have to worry about anyone else’s shit. Well, didn’t.”

“Just thinking that if you have any family, they might be pretty damn worried about you right now.”

“Well it’s a lot too late to do me any good, isn’t it?”

“Fair enough. Not my business.”

Samhal reverted to silence as Varric began to carefully work oil into Bianca’s stock. After a few more moments’ silence, Solas appeared around the edge of the nearest tent.

“Lethallin, should you wish it, I thought we might spend some time in lessons?”

Samhal twisted his head back to regard the other elf.

“Yeah? Okay, yeah.” He rolled smoothly to a crouch and stood with a slight bounce. “Let’s go. What’s today?”

The two mages began to move out of camp, but Varric still heard Solas reply, “I thought it wise to spend some time on defending yourself when, for whatever reason, your magical reserves are depleted.”

Varric just caught Samhal’s “Ah, fuck” before the pair moved out of conversation range.

Outside of camp, the two squared up, staves in hand. Varric watched them, Solas gesturing calmly, Samhal adjusting grip and stance accordingly. They held their staves crossed between them, bladed ends forward. At first they moved slowly—Solas tapped Samhal’s staff just off point, swiveling slightly to push the pointed end of his own weapon up towards Samhal’s face. He repeated the action several times, and then Samhal tried, awkwardly at first, but with a little more panache after a few tries.

Bit by bit, Solas added attacks and counters and Samhal picked them up with a dancer’s grace. Soon, the two were moving more and more fluidly through a pattern of strikes, twists, and thrusts, the clacking of their staves almost musical, their bodies ducking and swaying in the twilight. Varric sensed a presence beside him and glanced over to see Scout Harding watching the sparring as well. 

In Varric’s moment of distraction there was a surprised shout and a clatter, and when he looked back, Samhal was on the ground, Solas standing over him hand extended. Samhal took the hand, and both men pulled. They ended up bare inches apart, Samhal’s face turned up slightly and Solas looking down, startled. Samhal’s look of surprise disappeared quickly, replaced by that vulpine grin that meant nothing but trouble. Solas tensed and stepped back lightly, head turning to the side, before bringing his staff up again. Samhal picked up his staff and spun showily, twirling the weapon end over end, before falling into stance. The corners of Varric’s mouth drew together slightly and he darted a look at Harding, but her face was blank.

Twice more they repeated the sequence of strikes and counters, but on the third pass Samhal introduced a quick flick that pulled Solas’ staff out of his hands. In a flash, he was on Solas, and then behind him, staff held across Solas’ chest. And Solas _laughed_ and twisted, heaved, and the staff went flying, both men rolling. Varric thought he saw a split second where Solas could have pinned the smaller man, began the motion even, but then let it pass, and a moment later Samhal was on top, sitting on Solas’ chest and crowing.

Solas accepted his loss with a small smile, holding up his hands in surrender. Samhal braced his hands on Solas’ chest and pushed playfully, holding himself over the other man for, Varric thought, perhaps just a moment longer than strictly called for. Ahh. Well. 

Then Samhal sprang up and the tableau was broken, the intimacy vanished as Samhal mocked, loud and suddenly boyish, “Got you, _ha’hren_. Getting _stiff_ in your old age?” Solas’ reply was inaudible, but as the two turned back towards camp and dinner, both were smiling.

…………………………

The tent flap drew back and Samhal crawled in with a sinuous deliberation that was all the warning Solas needed. He could feel his pulse ticking upwards despite himself. 

Samhal slid out of his heavy coat and shrugged off the cotton undershirt, baring dark skin and the pale vallaslin that ran down onto his sternum. He stretched luxuriously and rolled his shoulders.

“Creators, it feels good to take that off and not freeze to death. I hate the south. Fuck winter.” His tone was not quite casual, laced with the promise of something else.

Samhal was quiet for a moment, tidying his gear off to one side.

“You let me win. If you wanted me on top so bad, you could just ask. I know you know that. Or maybe you want to be on top, is that it? That can be accommodated, believe me.”

“Lethallin, stop. It is unwise.” Solas drew a steadying breath.

“Why? What…ohhh! You think I’ll fall for you? You think my brain goes where my dick leads? Don’t flatter yourself.”

Something unknotted in Solas’ chest—he grasped after the ends but they slipped through his fingers. He searched his mind for other mooring lines to hold him against the tide.

“And your reputation? It would be wiser not to be seen favoring another elf, another mage.”

“Why, are you going to howl?” Samhal rolled forward onto hands and knees, voice low and teasing. “I know you want it, don’t think I can’t tell. I can be quiet if you can. I can be quiet as a kitten’s purr. If I have to, I mean. But you must know I’m rather proud of my…reputation.” 

With each sentence he drew closer, arching forward until his chest hovered above Solas’ blanket, his breath whispering on the other elf’s lips, his knee nudging the other man’s hip. Solas closed his eyes in search of composure and found only the heat of Samhal’s body above him.

“Don’t pretend you haven’t imagined it. How does it go in your head? Do you see these lips wrapped around you, sucking hungrily? Do you fold me in half so that you can see me gasp and pant as you take me? Or am I on my knees with your hands in my hair as you fuck me from behind, like a hound? Or should I say wolf?” He raised a hand to trace the jawbone that had fallen into the hollow of Solas’ shoulder. A stray finger along skin made the muscle there jump.

“Little Fox, you hunt something far more dangerous than you know.” As he spoke the words and heard the growl in them, he cursed himself for a fool. 

Samhal laughed, puffing herb-scented breath against Solas’ face. “Ah, but the fox has flushed out his quarry at last. I knew it was a predator behind those eyes, thou meek hermit. When you picture us, do I cower and bare my neck? Do you bite me to hold me still as you make me yours? Do you fill me and mark me with your scent so that I will not stray?” His voice lowered again, a bare whisper now. “But come, hunter, don’t you see?” He twisted his head, lifting his chin. His pulse fluttered visibly beneath the skin.

“I want to be eaten.”

The smaller man held perfectly still, his bowed body a blatant invitation, neither forcing nor retreating. Solas watched that fluttering pulse for a few beats longer, weighted by history and solitude. The shadow of a tree branch swayed slowly over the canvas, and an owl hooted in the middle distance. The sentries met at the end of their circuit and shared low, indistinct words. Slowly, slowly, he brought up a hand to tangle in red hair. Slowly he raised his head. And then, with an almost inaudible growl, he bit, sharp and hard, just short of marking where armor would not cover.

Solas rolled his body up and over, pulling Samhal with him, until they were flipped, the smaller man pinned underneath. Samhal smiled up triumphantly, chest rising and falling fast.

“It is not only sex you seek. You want to have the choices taken from you. You want to be once more the toy you were when you were safe and comfortable. Am I wrong?” He ran the backs of his fingernails up Samhal’s throat, tracing the lines there, until he spread his hand to cradle the join of Samhal’s throat and jaw—just lightly, somewhere between a threat and a promise. A collar. Samhal shuddered and arched into the touch.

“I want that. And sex. Fenhedis, I need a good fucking.”

Solas smiled, slow and dangerous. For just a moment he must have looked truly feral, and Samhal swallowed hard against the restraining hand. “Then I will give you that. All of that.”

His hand tightened on Samhal’s throat for a moment, steadying him as he rolled up and to the side. He undid his lacings quickly with long, fine fingers as Samhal watched with hooded eyes. The leggings slipped off with a few efficient gestures and then he was bare, bleached to marble in the moonlight.

“Begin at the beginning, then. Please me with your mouth.” Solas leaned back on his elbows, and Samhal grinned darkly as he scrambled to take his place between the other man’s legs. For a moment he sat on his heels, smugly contemplating the man spread out before him. He reached out and ran two fingers over the tautly muscled chest, down over the lean abdomen to trace the hard ridge of muscle over Solas’ hip. He lifted his hand a bare finger’s-breadth before it reached the smooth curve of the other man’s cock. Leaning forward, Samhal bit the muscle firmly, canines denting the skin. Lips followed the route that fingers had taken until his nose nuzzled against the base of Solas’ waiting cock. It twitched at the attention, but the older man’s breathing stayed slow and even.

Samhal dragged his nose up to the tip, took a deep breath, and in one smooth, practiced motion sucked in the head and sank down on Solas’ cock until the tip was in his throat and his nose was buried in the fine curls at the base. This time he was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath, but no more. Humming his satisfaction, he hollowed his cheeks and began a slow, steady rhythm, dragging the stud in his tongue along the ridge, working it back and forth just below the head.

Those long fingers carded through his hair almost tenderly for a minute before closing to tug hard at his scalp. The pain sent a frisson of arousal down his spine, and he moaned around Solas’ length, rocking his hips to chase the slight friction of his pants.

“You will have your turn,” Solas said evenly. “Finish me with your mouth. Make no sound that will be heard outside.” His hips stayed still, but his second hand came to the back of Samhal’s head, pushing down to encourage him on. Samhal growled and pushed back, scraping teeth gently along the other man’s shaft until there was room to grasp the base with a firm hand. As he began to move again, the other hand wandered over the planes of Solas’ stomach until it found his hip and dug in. He squeezed hard as hand and mouth picked up pace, working steadily. At the sound of the other man’s breath speeding up and the tightness of the hand in his hair, his hips moved restlessly.

There was little more warning than that—only an overall tightening—before Solas’ hips bucked, slightly, twice, and the thinnest whisper of a moan escaped his mouth. Samhal snatched away his hand and sank down so that the other man pulsed in his throat as he came. He stayed there, sucking gently, until Solas, spent, began to soften. Fingers released their grip and began to comb through his hair, scratching lightly against his scalp. Samhal lay his cheek against the other man’s thigh and was content to let himself be petted while Solas’ breathing slowed and returned to normal.

“Well done, lethallin. It is a good beginning.”

Samhal raised his head to smile up at the other man. “A beginning, is it?”

“Do you think me in my dotage, then? I said I would give you all you wanted.” Solas sat up and Samhal rocked back onto his heels. “Lie down.” Samhal obeyed, sprawling over his bedroll. Solas knelt between his legs and made short work of his leggings, pausing a moment to smile amusedly at silky underthings before sliding them down his legs and off.

“Beautiful. Nothing you might wear could be an improvement on this.”

“I don’t know, I’m told a bit of rope”—

“I will never bind you. Do not ask it.”

Samhal subsided, face tightening slightly.

“No, lethallin, we need no ropes. You will do as I say simply because I ask it, here, won’t you?” 

Solas ran a finger up and down Samhal’s cock before wrapping his hand around it, gripping just firmly enough to make the foreskin glide over the hard core as he moved his hand along it. Samhal fumbled blindly in his pack for a moment and pulled out a corked pot, setting it within Solas’ reach. The older man smiled slightly.

“Cover your mouth.”

Samhal scowled at the face hidden in shadows above him. “I am perfectly capable of holding my tongue, and you have an awfully high opinion of your ability.”

“Cover your mouth.”

Still scowling, Samhal obeyed. As his hand closed over his mouth, he felt the lightest tug on the Veil, and then suddenly he was arching back, heels scrabbling against the blankets, fist muffling a strangled cry. After a moment, Solas pulled his hand away, fingertips dragging the incredible hot-cold-tingling sensation across Samhal’s stomach, over a hip bone, and down the curve of one thigh before teasing upwards again. Samhal’s chest rose and fell like a bellows as he collected himself.

“Fucking Void, what did you do?”

“A small thing. A spell learned in my youth. Shall I continue, then?”

“Fuck yes.”

Solas ran the fingers of his enchanted hand over Samhal’s skin for a few more passes, each time brushing higher and higher along his thighs until at last he wrapped his unenchanted hand under one of Samhal’s thighs and brought it up to rest over his elbow. Reaching for the pot, he coated his fingers and then set it aside again. Samhal raised his other leg, offering himself, and Solas, tamping the spell back to a light tingle, circled his fingers over puckered flesh for only a moment before slipping one of them inside. Samhal bit his lip against a groan, pushing down onto the finger eagerly. After a moment, Solas slid another slicked finger in, crooking both and making Samhal writhe against his hand, while the other hand stroked up and down Samhal’s thigh. At unexpected intervals the burst of wild sensation spread from those fingers through Samhal’s pelvis, and he jerked and clutched at the blankets, gasping for breath afterwards.

“I’m not….haahh…some blushing virgin, you know. You needn’t be so…patient.”

Solas chuckled briefly. “Yes, you are lovely and pliant. But perhaps _you_ need to learn some patience. Were you always so hasty?”

“Only…when I’ve hardly gotten fucked…in ages.”

“I could make you writhe under me for days. But I suppose we do not have days.” He reached to the pot with his free hand, smoothing slick over himself. Samhal canted his hips up hungrily, breath quickening in anticipation, and Solas eased out his fingers and guided himself in, pushing steadily, watching Samhal’s face until he was buried to the base. Only the harsh lines of Solas’ cheek and jaw betrayed the struggle for control as he slid into the tight heat of Samhal’s body. 

When he did not move immediately, Samhal whined with frustration, circling his hips impatiently. Solas tightened his grip on Samhal’s hip, and, catching his other leg as well, he bent forward until he was eye to eye with the smaller man, covering and filling him.

“This is what you wanted?”

“Yes! Yes, yes, yes.” Solas pulled almost all the way out and thrust back in hard, knocking another breathless “yes” out of Samhal and then another. A quick finger across his mouth reminded the younger man of thin canvas walls and wakeful scouts, and he bit his lip to muffle a steady stream of small noises. Brown hands skittered over Solas’ ribs, grasping for leverage to rock against, and Samhal’s back arched as he strained towards the occasional friction of Solas’ stomach against his cock. Smiling briefly, Solas shifted his grip, slipping one hand under Samhal to lift him up and change the angle. On the next thrust, Samhal’s breath stuttered out harshly, and his head pressed back, mouth open wide. His skin began to glow with a fine sheen of sweat where the moonlight cut across it. Solas’ pace continued steadily for a while, and the smaller man panted brokenly with each thrust, but then Solas stilled, smiling down at Samhal.

“The reality does exceed my imaginings. But I believe we owe each other one last image?” He pulled out gently, and nudged Samhal’s leg over to roll the man. “On your knees, if you will.” 

Samhal whined at the sudden emptiness, but went over willingly, sliding his shorter legs between Solas’ knees. Solas soothed one hand over Samhal’s back as he pushed back into his waiting, eager body and picked his relentless rhythm back up. After a minute, Samhal began to tremble and pushed back onto Solas more and more needily. Solas growled low in his throat and fisted his hand in Samhal’s hair, pulling hard to bring the other man up, running his other hand under Samhal’s chest to encourage him into kneeling. As his hips rocked into Samhal in short, hard thrusts, one hand stayed in his hair and the other wandered across his chest, pausing to shoot sparks of sensation into the little nubs of his nipples. Samhal bit his lip viciously to contain the whines that wanted to spill out, his breath harsh in his nose. Solas’ thrusts sped up, becoming less and less measured, rougher and more demanding, until suddenly the hand in Samhal’s hair snaked down to clamp over full lips, denting hard into his jaw, and the other hand gripped Samhal’s leaking cock firmly. Samhal’s eyes flew wide, unseeing in the dark.

“However many lovers you have in years to come, Little Fox, your body will always remember me.” Solas growled the words into Samhal’s ear. “It has been _mine_ , and will not forget.” 

Just as his hand flared with maddening sensation along Samhal’s length, he bent and sank his teeth hard into the juncture between neck and shoulder. Samhal convulsed and came, body pinned and transfixed, scream muffled in Solas’ hand. Solas slammed into him one, two, three more times and then a stuttering shudder ran through his body as he finally let his pleasure crest and break over him. He came silently, mouth filled with the salt of Samhal’s skin.

After a moment, he released his grip on Samhal’s mouth. The smaller man sucked air frantically, legs trembling in the aftermath, and Solas turned him gently as he lowered him to the blankets. Quietly he flicked open his pack and pulled out the soft rag he used to dry after bathing. He gently cleaned up Samhal and the blankets before tending to himself, and then manipulated the limp, yielding elf until he was warmly tucked in before returning to his own bedroll.

For a little while the only sound was labored breathing slowly returning to normal.

“Was that adequate, lethallin? Are you consumed to your satisfaction?”

Samhal’s rich groan was a sound of utter repletion. “Yes, _hahren_ , you have schooled me entirely.”

Solas chuckled and adjusted the coat that served as his pillow.

“But you _will_ teach me that trick with the hand, right?”

That provoked an unexpectedly youthful laugh. “Perhaps. If you illustrate the needed control and precision in our combat lessons.”

With an indistinct grumble, Samhal rolled onto his side and promptly fell asleep. Solas lay awake for longer, watching shadows dance and shift across the canvas, wondering what he had done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incredibly, BloodyMassive (Not-a-Firefox on tumblr) made me THIS amazing (nsfw) art of Solas and Samhal which goes with this _verra_ nicely. http://rederiswrites.tumblr.com/post/128530574741/trash-art-alternative-this-is-rederiswrites Eeeeeeeee!
> 
> Also I keep forgetting to credit penbrydd for his help with editing chapter 15 and also for all the bad ideas he helps me have. I owe him a lot on this story, guys.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I spent a lot of time trying to get the plot all settled out, and then haven't felt well. I hope and expect that the next chapter will be much quicker.

As they turned back to the mountains with the first of their new horses, the weather turned bitter again. Samhal was not accustomed to riding, and bore it poorly. The first night he went straight to his bedroll, bypassing his portion of whatever unappealing rehydrated slop was being served for dinner. The second, he pilfered an elfroot potion and sat longer by the fire. He concentrated fiercely on maintaining a consistent orb of flame as he passed it back and forth between hands. The soldiers gave him a wide berth as the flame guttered and fizzled and, once, exploded, accompanied by a loud exclamation of “Fucker!” from Samhal.

On the fourth night, two wide-eyed new mage recruits crept nearer to the fire to watch his experimentations.

By the fifth night, the flame flicked from fingertip to fingertip, dancing back and forth until, with a sweeping motion, he drew the other hand over and turned it palm up to reveal the ball of flame gathered there. He rolled the orb to his fingertips before snaking that hand back and letting it roll over and down the back. Samhal let the flame spin its way around and over his hands in intricate patterns for another minute or so before snapping his fingers and dismissing it. He caught Solas’ eye across the campfire and smirked meaningfully.

“You’re right. Control and precision. What a worthy field of study.”

“I believe I do recall once saying that you would be an apt enough pupil, properly motivated.”

Samhal laughed and flicked sparks at Solas off his fingertips.

……………..

It was twilight and snowing thickly by the time the returning party passed under the gates of Haven. The village was cloaked in white, the horses’ prints rapidly disappearing back into the snow. The advisors gathered quickly to greet the Herald, but when they seemed ready to have a full-scale debriefing then and there Samhal put his foot down. He was having nothing but a hot bath and an early bed that night.

When he woke the next morning, none too early, the light falling across his pillow was harsh and bright. He scrambled out of bed and stared out the window, first at the clear blue sky and then at the smooth white snow that came partway up the glass.

Samhal threw on his cloak and yanked open the door. Outside, two guards stood in a small trampled space, snow heaped to the sides. Beyond, the snow rose nearly to Samhal’s waist, broken only by the deep, ragged furrows the guards had made trudging through. The guards turned, startled, to look at him.

“Fuck no.”

Samhal slammed the door and stood behind it, contemplating for a bit. He threw open the door again and glared fiercely at one of the guards.

“Is this normal? Is this fucking normal? This”—he waved both arms angrily at the wall of snow—“this shit is normal here?”

The guard cleared his throat nervously. 

“Well, ser, I ent from the mountains but I—I b’lieve so?”

“Fuck.”

Samhal slammed the door again. A large chunk of snow scraped down the roof and plopped in front of the window at the disturbance.

When next Samhal opened the door, he was carefully groomed, wearing every bit of clothing he had, and holding his staff in front of himself like a shield.

“Alright, let’s do this.”

The bottom half of his staff lit with a warm glow, and he marched forward, jaw set. As he walked, the snow in front of him hissed and sputtered and then began to flow away in an abrupt tiny river of meltwater. The guards behind him shuffled and muttered in surprise before following him across suddenly sodden ground.

All the way to the front of the Chantry Samhal maintained the spell, though he was gritting his teeth by the time he got there. Few people were outside by choice, but heads turned as he cut through the snow. Many seemed shocked, more than a few wary, but several were openly reverent, and those were the most unnerving. The commander came quickly to the front of his makeshift headquarters, summoned by the brush of magic against his mind, and his eyes widened comically as Samhal and his path drew up to the trampled space in front of the lean-to. As the spell winked out, Samhal bobbled unsteadily and Cullen moved forward quickly to catch him.

“’M fine,” Samhal mumbled, letting himself lean heavily against the human.

Cullen’s eyes traced the deep furrow in the snow until it turned the corner and disappeared out of sight.

“That…seems like an extraordinary expenditure of energy.”

“Yes, because plowing through the snow would have been a breeze. Sorry we’re not all great big Marcher warriors.”

Cullen blinked down at Samhal and then realized that he was still all-but-holding the smaller man and flushed, hastily righting him by his shoulders.

“Ferelden!”

Samhal’s smug grin was broken by the apparent non-sequitur. “I’m sorry, Ferelden what?”

“Ahhh, forgive me. That is, I’m from Ferelden. Not the Free Marches.”

“Then how did you end up in Kirkwall?”

Cullen looked down and away, reaching to knead the back of his neck as if his head hurt. “It’s an old story.” He stopped for a second. “But surely we have more important matters at hand. Are you ready to meet with the other councilors now?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I did all that”—Samhal gestured at the incongruous trench in the snow—“just to come see _you_.”

Cullen flushed bright red and made a small strangled noise before he noticed Samhal’s smirk.

“Joking! Ahah...hah. Yes, right, well. Shall we…go? I can send runners for the others.” He gestured rather desperately at the front of the Chantry.

Samhal swayed dramatically. “I’m feeling terribly weak still. Carry me?”

“Joking! Joking…I’ll just…lead then, shall I?” Cullen threw himself forward, plowing broadside into the already-broken path to the Chantry, shuffling and trampling energetically. Samhal shrugged and followed, and two bemused guards trotted after.

The debriefing began with Josephine, Cassandra, and Leliana arguing over him on the best approach to the Chantry mothers. The most amusing part was watching all of them treading delicately around the news of his previous unorthodox methods of diplomacy. At one point he tired of the bickering and suggested that perhaps the Chantry mothers, having most likely been long deprived of a good view, might respond to the same methods. Leliana laughed, Josephine tried very hard not to look amused, and Cassandra snorted disgustedly. 

Next, Cassandra and Cullen got into it over how best to house the next influx of horses, followed by a rather strident debate over the disposition and supervision of the newly-arrived mages. Around the time Cullen suggested putting them under round-the-clock templar supervision, Samhal turned his back and resorted to sitting on the edge of the table and neatening his cuticles.

“Herald? _Your Worship?_ ”

“Hmmm?” Samhal glanced up from scratching at an almost-invisible speck of dried mud on his pants.

“I said what do you think?” Even Josephine was beginning to look tired and frazzled.

“About what? Why? I don’t think my expertise really applies here and you know it.”

They let him go.

………………..

When he emerged from the Chantry, the sun was already high overhead. He looked around for a moment to get his bearings in the snow-obscured landscape, thumped his staff down to summon the melting spell, and set off towards the tavern. He tried to chat with his guards, but their responses were stiff and monosyllabic, and he gave up shortly. His nose was stopped up with the cold and told him nothing, but he thought of Cullen’s comments on the mages and wondered if either of them would smell of lyrium if he got closer. 

By the time he reached the tavern he was feeling thoroughly drained again and chilled to the bone. The guards exchanged an awkward glance and then took up stations to either side of the door. As he moved through on his way to the bar, conversations snuffed one by one, until he turned to face a silent room.

“Ah…” For a moment he felt paralyzed by the audience, as he had not since his early days in Tantervale. The memory of Madame Cerise’s carefully cultured tones saved him, and he slid on a smile, then hastily amended it from ‘seductive’ to ‘welcoming’. “Please, be at ease. I’m just here to relax and have a drink like the rest of you.”

No one looked very convinced, but a familiar voice called out from a dark corner.

“Over here, Fox! Got a seat for you.”

Samhal felt a small surge of gratitude as he wound his way between tables to sink into the warm shadows of Varric’s table. Two scarred dwarves and a gap-toothed human moved away as he approached, so that he and Varric were alone at the table.

“So, I hear you’re growing the legend of the Herald today.” Varric caught the bartender’s eye with a wave and held up two fingers.

“I am?”

“’The very snow gives way before his step. How can anything stand against him?’” The dwarf grinned broadly.

Samhal blinked and looked around again. Quiet conversations had resumed, but many eyes were still directed his way.

“They get that I’m a _mage_ , right?”

“Sure, I guess, but how many of them do you think have actually seen magic before, outside of that?” Varric waved a thick-fingered hand at the ceiling to indicate the Breach. “Been entertaining as shit for me, though. Watched three people fall on the ice-sheet you left behind already today.”

“Oh. Uh.”

The bartender interrupted Samhal’s discomfiture with a nervous smile and two mugs of ale.

“So speaking of, you’re a fellow Marcher. How are you dealing with this white bullshit?” Samhal examined the lip of his tankard fastidiously.

“Me? I’m not. Got myself here this morning and here I stay. Up to my damn sternum. I’ve decided to just not piss for a while. Why would people live here on purpose?”

“I just hope we don’t die here.”

Varric laughed warmly. “I’ll drink to that.”

…………………

An hour later, Samhal was feeling pleasantly tingly and more than a little rebellious. The noise levels had returned to something more like former levels, and people had mostly stopped eyeing him as if they expected either a miracle or a fiery death at any moment.

“You know what I would like?”

Varric raised an eyebrow.

“I would like to go somewhere—anywhere—without those two hounds panting after me.”

“Good luck. I’m sure they’ve been vetted by Curly and Nightingale both. They’ve been standing there like doglord statues this whole time.”

“That’s alright. You know, I have the strangest suspicion that their lunches are about to disagree with them. Meat must’ve been a shade off.”

Under the table, Samhal’s hands shaped a fleeting black mist. After a moment, one of the guards grimaced and shifted uncomfortably. The second guard blanched slightly and caught at his stomach. Samhal grinned at Varric toothily.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re just a little bit creepy, Fox?”

Samhal’s smile slipped as he pulled his hood up.

“Once or twice, maybe. Yeah.”

The first guard made a helpless gesture at the second and dashed out the door. The second stood ramrod straight, eyes glazed, and did not notice a hooded elf with a walking stick slip by on his way to the tavern’s other door.

Once outside, Samhal glanced over his shoulder, pulled his cloak tightly around him, and trudged balefully into the snow, shaking his feet every few steps like a displeased cat. Fortunately, his destination was not far off.

Solas looked up from the sheaf of paper he was studying as Samhal slipped into the cabin and closed the door against the cold. His first expression was one of annoyance at the interruption, though it smoothed out into the usual bland mask quickly enough. 

“Good afternoon, lethallin. How goes the return to Haven?”

“Cold. Snowy. Forget about it. Leave it out there.”

“Very well. And what are we to do in here while the world waits out there?”

Samhal studied Solas’ face carefully, but memory proved true—there was no fear there and no awe, no reverence or wariness. Only a wry interest, and the impression that if Samhal took too long to answer, Solas would simply go back to his reading. Some of the tension he’d hardly realized he’d been carrying all day drained away. He smiled slyly.

“My guards are indisposed and my keepers have given up on me. No one’s going anywhere for the moment. You had some disparaging things to say about my patience and control the other night. I assure you, I can do better.”

Solas glanced back down at his papers, and then over at the shuttered window. Deliberately, he set the papers aside and rose.

“Perhaps. We shall see.”

“Mmmm. Start by sitting back down, then. I’ll get there. _Patience_.” Samhal’s smile broadened as he reached down and began flicking open the toggles on his boots.

……………..

During the night it snowed again. Samhal’s ice-slicked paths were filled to his knees again, and the road out of the mountains was nearly a man’s height deep in snow and impassable.


	19. Chapter 19

Haven shifted pace in the face of deep winter. Soldiers took a pause from drilling in the snow-clogged square, turning to clearing paths, digging new latrine trenches, and sledging firewood in from the surrounding woods. Leliana and Josephine still emerged from their sanctum to send birds, Cullen directed the soldiers in their work on Haven’s infrastructure, and Cassandra sweated alongside the soldiers to keep herself from fretting.

At first Samhal tried to stay out of sight in his cabin. He’d never minded all eyes on him—quite the opposite, really—but the weight of their fears and expectations grated. It didn’t last, though. There was nothing to do in the cabin, he’d never been much for reading, and his own thoughts were never his favorite company. 

Josephine closeted him for a while to drill him on the Chantry mothers and other power players most likely to be found in Val Royeaux and how to approach them. Handling touchy people who thought very well of themselves was a great deal of what he’d spent his adulthood doing and why he was in this position in the first place, but the cast of characters was entirely new to him. He found he rather enjoyed those sessions, and enjoyed making Josephine blush as well. Which was not to say that Samhal was at all resigned to marching into the lion’s maw, but he was willing to play along for now.

Otherwise, Samhal split his time between chatting with Varric at the tavern and studying with Solas, for the most part, but he made sure that his routes to and from always took him past Cullen. 

An aura of subdued excitement took hold as Satinalia drew nearer. Resources were severely constrained, but an ingenious few began a cottage industry in simple masks and small presents—carved figurines, knitted items, whatever could be managed from the materials at hand. Josephine fretted over alcohol stocks and the lack of decorations. Cullen looked like something smelled bad every time the idea of using Inquisition resources on “ridiculous goings-on” came up. Leliana concerned herself primarily with making sure nothing more serious happened under cover of masked revelry than the occasional ill-considered personal liaison. 

Samhal himself felt at loose ends, neither a participant nor, this time, a performer. Sometimes, before, there had been small presents, a shared bottle of something nice quietly snuck from someone’s estate, but the holiday meant little enough to him. Well, Leliana had slipped him a soft silk mask. It would be a night to cover his face and drink in peace a bit.

………………………..

In the windowless recesses of the old Haven chantry, the only light came from the fireplace and the fat lamps flickering on the table. Evening had faded into night unnoticed as the two of them sat at work, and the only signs were the slowing of the constant trickle of messengers and the growing stiffness in Cullen’s neck. He sighed and rolled his shoulders, not for the first time, and looked over at Leliana.

“So…” he hesitated, still unsure how much he trusted the spymaster, but desperate for an ear. He steeled himself. This was, after all, her concern as well. “So, Samhal…” And then he didn’t know what more to say. Samhal. Samhal _was_ the question, wasn’t he? Maybe the only one that mattered, now.

She smiled the knowing smile that subtly irritated him every time. “Samhal what? Can he be what we need him to be? Is he a disaster waiting to happen? Is he strong enough? Are we going to destroy him? Or…were you thinking ‘Will he ever stop making me blush?’”

Cullen bridled. “I don’t—he does not make me…nonsense.”

“Don’t lie, Commander. It suits you poorly. He is driving you mad.” There was laughter in her voice.

“Why?” It was an outburst, an anguished plea for understanding. “Why does he do it? I have done my best to make it clear that I am not interested in…that, that it would be wholly inappropriate, but he persists. He is there when I turn around, a hair’s breadth away, looking up with huge eyes, saying….oh, things…” He trailed off lamely, abashed.

Leliana considered him for a few moments and then shifted as if making a decision. “Commander. Cullen. I…had thought to leave the Herald his privacy, and I will so far as I think it does not hurt our cause, but I have learned more in the last week about the person Samhal has been, and it suggests a few things about how we might expect him to behave and how best to…manage him.”

Cullen’s brows drew together at the word choice, but he waited with interest for the spymaster to continue.

“I believe you know that Samhal had not been living exclusively with Clan Lavellan for many years now, and that for the last six he has been living on his own in Tantervale. This much he told me himself, and it was included in your briefing. But you have lived in Circles nearly all your life, and I think you may not have the experience to understand all of the things that might mean. In the Circles, relatively little distinction is made between elf mages and their human compatriots, yes? Not none, but they live side-by-side and share opportunity for promotion. You must have some idea, though, that human cities are not kind to elves.”

She lapsed into silence again for a minute, and Cullen, turning her words over in his head, trying to eke out her meaning, waited.

She sighed. “I once knew another elf, a man named Zevran. We traveled together during the Blight. He was an Antivan Crow, bought and bred to be a killer, and to use any…tools…at his disposal. Which he did for years, skillfully and with such grace that it would take a practiced eye to see…” She stopped again. “I am sorry. This is difficult. I struggle for the right words. Zevran was taught, on pain of torture and threat of death, that desire was a tool, a blade, and one that either lay in your hand at the throat of another or was at your throat in the hands of another. The methods of the Crows are…much less subtle than those employed by Orlesian bards, but I recognized the lesson well enough. It is one I believe any powerless person, thrown into a dangerous world with no one to turn to, would quickly learn. Much less one as conspicuously beautiful and unusual as the Herald. More than that, I leave for the Herald to share if he so chooses, but his behavior seems clear enough to me.”

Cullen struggled. “You’re right, I’m sorry, but it is not at all clear to me. I still don’t understand what this has to do with me or his behavior towards me.”

“Commander. He is frightened, and seeks to protect himself in the way that has served him before. He has tried his wiles on all of us—they slide off of Josephine, sweet thing that she is, and me, well, I think he recognized quickly that I knew that game too well to be a mark, yes? But you, Commander, you are his biggest threat and strongest potential ally. You are everything that threatens him combined into one person. He seeks to buy your good will in the only coin he thinks he has that humans value.”

He sat back in his chair limply, questions vying for precedence on his tongue. He was more than a little surprised when the first one out was, “He is afraid? I have not—he seems so confident.”

Leliana laughed. “And so you display what a tempting target you really are. Your first thought—ahh, but of course he is terrified. How could he be otherwise? An elf surrounded by humans, a mage surrounded by Templars, and you chief among them; the lynchpin of so many hopes and so many fears. Watch more closely, Commander, and I think you will see behind the mask.”

“But…he thinks he must...buy…my protection with his…his…ah, his, favor?” His hands lifted in front of him as if to stave off the understanding.

“He would be right in many places, with many men. It was not so completely different in the Circles, was it?” She caught his gaze and held it.

Cullen sagged, defeated and suddenly so very tired. “No. Not so different.”

Leliana did not comment further. Cullen’s mind wandered down dark paths.

“But then…Maker, what can I do? I could not be what he seeks even if I thought it right.”

“No, but you can, perhaps, be what he needs. What you must show him is that people will give of themselves without expecting that in return. You must show that he has your protection regardless. Show him simple human kindness, and be patient. Unless, of course, he is right to fear you?” She paused to slide the most recent message into a tiny canister, letting the last sentence fall heavily into the surrounding silence. 

Cullen opened his mouth on an angry retort, realized that he didn’t know what he had meant to say, and checked for a moment.

“He need not fear me, nor any templar here, unless he falls to temptation. If that should happen, I will do my duty.”

Leliana looked up from her task and he met her gaze at first, but she seemed to look through him, right to the shattered, rage-filled young man she had seen so many years before in Kinloch Hold, and he jerked his eyes away.

“It troubles you to think that holy Andraste might choose a mage to do her will, yes? Does it keep you awake at night?”

“It is not my place to question the Maker’s will nor understand His plan.”

She pinned him with her stare for a few more breaths before letting him go.

“Of course.”

They lapsed into firelit silence for several more minutes. At last he gave up on his blurring eyes and pushed the remaining papers into a stack. “What of this other man, the Crow, then? What became of him?”

“Zevran?” Leliana smiled, her eyes distant. “There was a man of remarkable intelligence and resource. He…learned to love. I think he was learning to trust, even. I have not seen them in years, but when they write…I think they are happy together.”

“Then there is hope for all of us? That we can heal?”

“I have faith that it is so.” She stood and stretched, catlike. “And Commander? For Andraste’ sake, stop blushing at him. You _are_ a soldier, are you not? How virginal can those ears possibly be?”

 

That night, Cullen slept poorly, which was hardly unusual, but the dreams were not the usual fare. He saw Samhal as he had been at the rift before the temple, marked hand flaring. Hand and rift connected, as they had in life, but rather than folding in on itself, the green fissure blew outward and expanded. Samhal screamed out in pain, and Cullen struggled to his side, but when he reached out, the other man looked at him with the revulsion he had shown at their first meeting, and shrank back. In the next second, the rift flared again and began to consume them, Samhal’s hand and arm fragmenting before the green glow blew over him. Cullen jerked awake already upright and sweating in the frigid night air, Samhal’s frightened face still burning behind his eyes.

He had forgotten that first moment, buried it under a dozen other images of the elf, cock-sure and smirking, confident and teasing, but the first flush of fear was a familiar look. He had seen it on many faces. He had even relished it for a long time. It had meant that he was doing his job, that the mages in his charge feared the sword and shield that did the work of the Maker and protected mankind from the dangers of magic.

Samhal was the Herald, though, and Cullen the Commander of the Inquisition. If what they intended was going to work, Samhal had to trust him, not fear him. Something quiet whispered that Cullen _wanted_ Samhal to trust him. _Show him that people will give without expecting that in return. Show him simple human kindness._

Well, Satinalia was approaching, was it not? Cullen thought of hunched shoulders and purple lips and knew just the thing. He would see to it in the morning.

………………………….

The first day of Firstfall opened crisp and bright. Despite the snow and ever-present Rift—or perhaps because of them—people seemed eager to set aside their cares for the day and celebrate.

It had been made clear that Samhal was expected to be front and center for the Satinalia service. The Chantry was stuffy, dim, and over-full, and Samhal was feeling more than a little sulky about standing and listening to the priests drone on for an hour. His attitude improved considerably when the call-and-response began and he realized that he had front-row seats for Leliana’s clear soprano and Cullen’s surprisingly warm baritone.

As he left the Chantry, children were already running by in makeshift masks, laughing and begging treats. He was thinking of the children in the Crossroads when he heard Cullen call out behind him.

“Herald! Ah, Samhal!”

He turned as Cullen caught him up, looking suddenly shy.

“I…ah…it’s. Well, it’s Satinalia.”

“Really? I did wonder what all the singing and incense was about.”

Cullen barked out a laugh and relaxed a bit. “Sorry, yes. Of course. I got you something. I hope…I hope that’s alright.”

As he spoke, he led them to his tent, where he leaned down to retrieve a cloth-wrapped bundle from under a table. He held it out, a faint flush on his cheeks. Samhal looked at the package, then back up at Cullen’s face, and a slow smile spread across his face. Alright, if that was how the game was played. He should have realized. He took the package, letting his fingers brush over the other man’s.

A few quick tugs at the neat twine bows, and the package unfurled to reveal a hood, sturdy green fulled wool on the outside, lined around the face and shoulders with silky fennec fur. The tailor had stitched the seams down in a neat herringbone pattern in yellow wool. Samhal ran a hand over the fur wonderingly before looking back up at the commander.

“Thank you. It’s lovely.”

He pulled it over his head, but got the angle wrong and got a bit lost in the back of the hood. Cullen reached out to help, and both men were laughing by the time the hood was on straight. Cullen gave a flipped shoulder one last tug and smoothed it out.

“Does it suit me?” Samhal cocked a hip out and posed.

“You look very well.” As soon as the words were out, Cullen realized what he’d said and flushed red. “In the hood. The hood looks very well. But I have taken enough of your time. I have duties to attend, and I’m sure you have plans.”

Samhal did not, in fact, particularly have plans, but he was learning when not to push the other man. He smiled, offered his thanks again, and left for the tavern, periodically pushing the hood against his face to nuzzle the fur. He had certainly received gifts before, but few so thoughtful. Thoughtfulness would be rewarded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my neverending amazement and delight, several people have made art of Samhal since the last update. In general, art of Samhal can be found on my Tumblr (rederiswrites.tumblr.com) under the tag Samhal art. Since my last chapter, I have been incredibly blessed by these four:
> 
> http://hallahideout.tumblr.com/post/131467481475/a-quick-and-foxy-samhal-lavellan-for-the-talented
> 
> http://schrodanger.tumblr.com/post/131518532162/au-where-declan-and-rederiswritess-samhal-meet
> 
> http://schrodanger.tumblr.com/post/130154941842/todays-poor-victim-of-my-shitty-elf-sketches-is
> 
> http://kirkwallgirl.tumblr.com/post/130673129654/rederiswrites-jackiegooutside-replied-to-your
> 
> Someday I will learn how to HTML these into pretty links, but _this is not that day_.


	20. Chapter 20

Wearing his hood and mask, Samhal felt freer than he had in a long time. He danced, light-footed and laughing, to the pipe and drum with smiling soldiers and refugees. He squatted with other bundled figures in a storeroom out of the wind and diced for small coin. He shouted and cheered, just one of the crowd, when the blacksmith’s eldest apprentice was carried by in a chair, decked out in cobbled-together finery as the Fool King, red-faced and grinning. He wove his way through drunken snowball fights, and smiled behind silk when a snowball broke harmlessly against the back of his new hood.

As the day wore on, sheltered corners began collecting laughing couples, and Samhal decided it was time to find some conversation. On the way to the tavern he thwarted the efforts of an enterprising young pickpocket, and then entertained himself by sending a wisp of magic chasing after to freeze the boy just as a pair of laughing girls came around a corner too fast. All three went down in a tangle of limbs, the would-be pickpocket shouting out in astonishment. Samhal giggled giddily and slipped into the warm fug of the tavern, shutting the door quickly on the winter cold.

Varric was in his usual corner, cheerfully presiding over a game of Wicked Grace. A litter of small coin and minor personal effects was scattered over the table.

“Might I join the next round, Messere Tethras?”

Varric glanced up at the Dalish accent and then grinned and winked at the slight, bundled figure.

“Well hello, Mysterious Stranger. By the look of that fine hood warming your ears, I’d say you have coin in your pocket?”

“A young gentleman did just try to relieve me of my purse, but he failed, so I could give you a chance.”

After a bit of grumbling and shuffling, space was made, and Samhal won the next round handily, though he suspected Varric of stepping back on purpose. The evening wore on, with either Samhal or Varric usually coming out just a bit ahead, but never enough to drive off their prey.

“Well, Mysterious Stranger, it seems luck favors you.” Varric grinned across the table, red-blonde stubble catching the firelight.

Samhal snorted. “Now you just know that’s not true.”

“Alright, then. The Maker forgot us the day he passed out good fortune, so we make our own, eh? Your purse certainly isn’t lighter this evening. You’re not drinking anything. I’ll get some whiskey, shall I?”

“Hah! I don’t do so well with the hard stuff. There have been…incidents.”

“Perfect, then! This _is_ Satinalia, isn’t it?” Varric flagged down a boy—Samhal was not at all clear that he worked in the tavern, but for a copper he was happy to fetch them a bottle.

Half an hour later, to Varric’s very evident delight, Samhal had shed everything but pants and boots and was climbing unsteadily onto a table, scattering tankards as he went.

“Hey you drunk fucks! Wanna see something worth seeing?” He squinted, trying to bring the crowd into focus. “Wanna see some…fuckin’…some _magic_?” The crowd shuffled and seethed nervously. He shaped a ball of fire into existence between his hands, and the shuffling became a writhing as people pushed through the crowd to make their exit.

A few minutes later, though, the tavern was twice as packed as before. The drummer had been summoned, and Samhal was sweating in the center of a whirl of flame, fire trailing from his hands and sparks flying from his feet as he spun and stamped. He alternated between streamers of flame and orbs, which he ran over his arms and passed behind his back as he bowed and twisted, occasionally tossing one up to burst in sparks.

He spotted Leliana, arms crossed, standing near the door. “The lovely Nightingale, ladies and gentlemen!” He blew her a kiss that turned into a gout of flame as it passed over his hand. Several people ducked, but once everyone was confident nothing was on fire, a round of applause followed. Samhal, grinning, tried to bow and spin at the same time, and went over into the crowd in a shower of startled sparks. Amid general laughter, Varric hitched himself onto the table.

“Well folks, I hope you’ve enjoyed yourselves, but I think the Herald’s done for the night. Happy Satinalia, everyone!” Hopping down, he collected a slightly befuddled Samhal over one shoulder and took him back to the corner table. The crowd slowly dispersed amid mixed applause and disappointed calls for more.

“Here, Fox, get your shirt back on before you freeze.”

Samhal got the shirt on right way ‘round on the second try and began methodically investigating the contents of the assorted tankards on the table, drinking whatever he found. Varric watched him with amusement.

“You weren’t kidding about the booze, anyway. Ruffles is going to be thrilled over this bit of image-building.”

“’S my _specialty_. Image. ‘Course, going for a slightly different image these—oop. Hmmm. That kind of thrilled.” Samhal giggled madly, and then giggled harder as his head lolled to one side. “Well, maybe they’ll stop staring at me like…like I’m the fuckin’ Divine.”

“They might do that.” Varric laughed. “They just might.” 

The two sat for a while in companionable and somewhat sodden silence as the tavern slowly emptied around them.

Abruptly Samhal stood up and started struggling into his coat and hood. “I got…I got places to be. Place. Place to be. Gotta…say thank you.” He headed for the tavern door, listing slightly to the right until he ricocheted gently off a table. Varric said something concerned behind him, but he was out the door before it registered.

Outside, the cold was like a slap to the face. The moon was huge and bright, but it silvered a largely still landscape—most people had retired or found somewhere warmer to while away the rest of their revelry. Mumbling angrily about southerners and people who lived where nobody should live, Samhal wove his way uphill.

When he reached his destination, the tent flaps were tied neatly, inside and out, and Samhal struggled and quietly cursed for some time before he got the bottom ones open and crawled in. Inside, everything was neat and quiet. An iron and soapstone brazier kept the temperature well above that of the air outside. Polished and oiled armor was neatly arranged on a stand, brushed boots set side-by-side at the base. Cullen slept on a narrow cot no different than those provided to the soldiers, one arm flung over his eyes. Samhal giggled softly at the fraying hole in the seam where Cullen’s worn linen shirt joined under the arm and resisted the urge to stick his finger through. Time to warm cold hands soon enough. He shrugged out of the hood, reeling sideways several steps and narrowly avoiding the brazier. The coat and shirt went better. He started to shuck off his pants, but then realized that his boots were still in the way. By the time he got the boots off, he had forgotten about the pants.

He paused a moment to admire the line of Cullen’s jaw and the blonde waves, loosened in sleep and giving the man a new softness. Showing appreciation would require little by way of pretense this time. Lifting the corner of the blankets, Samhal started to slide himself in over the Commander.

Cullen woke instantly. His arm flew to the side, eyes wide open.

Samhal grinned up at him crookedly as he squirmed further under the blankets. “Hello, Ser knight!” He dragged a thigh heavily down between Cullen’s legs. “Bed warming ser—“

Cullen sprang to life with a deafening roar.

“ _Do not touch me, demon!_ ”

His arm shot out and Samhal flew backwards, blankets snarling his legs. A Smite struck him midair and drove him before it. His back struck the tent pole with a crunch and his head whipped back and hit with stunning force.

Everything went white, first, and then black. When the world swam back into focus, Cullen filled his vision, teeth bared and sword in hand.

“I will yield nothing, no matter whose face you take. I will not fail!”

Cullen flung out his empty hand, and Samhal screamed as the Silence hit him. His stomach heaved and violently expelled an astonishing amount of alcohol to run over the ground and soak into his pants. Cullen’s furious voice pounded against the back of his skull. “Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.” Samhal curled into a ball, arms over his head, and waited for the bite of the sword. Someone cried, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please don’t” over and over in Samhal’s voice, in thin counterpoint to the Canticle of Benedictions.

Outside the tent, there was concerned shouting, and then a blast of cold air washed over his bare back. A shocked cry was followed by a flurry of confused words and then booted feet pounding away from the tent. Samhal’s stomach heaved again and he lost track of reality for a while. Hands plucked at him and he fought them weakly, curling inward more tightly.

“I’m sorry. Please don’t. Please don’t. I’m so sorry.”

A hooded form moved past him, arms spread wide, and a woman’s voice came with it, low and calm and surreal. Cullen held out his sword in shaking hands.

“It thinks to trick me with a new face. It unearths my _every_ moment of weakness. I will not be fooled. Get back!”

The woman—Leliana, Samhal realized vaguely, broke in again, quiet and soothing. He heard clipped orders behind him, and found himself being bundled in a cloak and lifted by new, more insistent arms. He strained to focus and found Cassandra’s face looking down at him, full of dismay. As she turned away with him, he heard Cullen again, suddenly confused. 

“Leliana? But then…I don’t…why?”

He turned his face into Cassandra’s chest.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whimpers quietly*
> 
> I owe Penbrydd a debt for his willingness to share his experience of PTSD with me.


	21. Interlude--The Making of the Fox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A step back in time to better understand who Samhal is and why he does as he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time-wise, this chapter takes place between the prologue and Chapter One. As I was writing the chapter you're all actually waiting for, I realized that I was working from an understanding of Samhal, his character, and his circumstances that I had implied but really never laid out, and it was probably time to fix that. This sort of thing is the reason the commercial authors write and edit novels all together before publishing, but it is what it is.

The first time they sent him into a shem town, he was seventeen, barefaced still and smaller even than his final meager height, but he had long since earned an ill reputation in the clan. The clan was a creature of mutual trust and mutual assistance, but Samhal, in some ways, had left the clan the day he manifested magic and raised his mother’s body from her pyre. He learned to keep his own counsel and help himself. The Dalish rarely lie, but Samhal did, and smiled as he did it—‘Fen’harel’s get’, some whispered, and he knew they said it. The less willingly they gave, the more he took without leave. When they complained to Samhal’s brother, he looked away and shrugged. When they complained to the Keeper, she sighed and said that perhaps it was for the best—if he was to live among the shems, at least by all accounts he would be more like them this way. 

Everyone was eager to see him leave, and he was eager to go.

That first little settlement was a town outside Wildervale, nothing much—just mud and thatch and a trial case for the Keeper’s plan for Samhal. He was to trade embroidered leather gloves, carved ironbark utensils, and other small luxuries for the finer fabric the shem craftsmen wove on their great looms. The goods themselves were safe outside of town with a pair of hunters—Samhal’s job was to smile as he lied and make the deal. He went straight to the largest building in town, which turned out to be the tavern, and got everyone’s attention by dint of smacking a chair violently against a table. He made his pitch, showed his samples, and got a customer. He also got beaten up behind a barn for being an uppity knife-ear. 

His technique improved quickly. He smiled so well when he lied, and was so beautiful when he smiled, that even some of his clan forgot he lied. He learned not to be uppity, or rather, to find just the right combination of smiling and cringing for each situation. He did not learn quite quickly or well enough to be spared further cuffings.

The first time he went into a larger town, he told the hunters not to expect him back ‘til morning, and set himself to try a room at the inn. Evidently, however, that was not done, and when he tried to bargain for a bed he was shown out roughly and told to try his own kind. A young woman—either kinder-hearted or struck by long lashes over green eyes—followed him down the road and pointed the way to the alienage.

The alienage was full of lessons for a young elf. He was put up by an old woman who took nothing in trade because she feared having anything so nice. Her floor was scrubbed clean and smooth, but bare, the stew she fed him was thin, and the pallet he slept on even more so. His accent and strangeness were a beacon, and elves crowded into the old woman’s front room (there were only two) to hear what he would tell them of the Dalish.

In the morning, he sat on the stoop with one of the young men and heard what he could of the flat-ears. As he pointed, the boy answered—that is the vhenadahl, that the basket maker, that with the painted flags the house of the hahren. 

“Why does everyone look so poor and threadbare?” 

“How else should we look? We are elves. Rabbits.”

“And what of that woman, then,” Samhal asked. “The one with the shem children following her. She wears bright colors and full skirts. Do the shems pay her well to watch their children?” 

The boy’s laugh was harsh.

“No—they only pay her for the getting of them. They are hers, round ears and all.”

Samhal heard the scorn in the boy’s voice, but what he saw was fine wool and the pretty little chain shining at her ankle.

After, he kissed the boy up against the wall of a rickety tenement building, and then left and never saw him again.

Samhal learned a great deal about life in the world of shems on that trip. On later trips, he also learned that not all the elven women with round-eared children on their hips got paid or wore pretty little chains. What was not for sale could still be taken.

When the Keeper asked Samhal what vallaslin he would take, he said that he would be his own masterpiece and make his body his craft, and claimed June. He laughed to himself, though, and knew he only sought the lines that would frame green eyes and draw the gaze across his lips and down his throat. Neither June nor any of the others served him, his clan, or any of the elves in the cities. They were locked away and no use to him. He knew that many of those watching wished to see him fail, and so he was utterly still and silent throughout the ritual and bared sharp white teeth at them all when it was done.

He stayed with the clan between trips for another year, until one day he returned from the city in new shemlen clothing and refused to say what he had traded for them. What he had traded was his and his alone to trade and no business of theirs. It was not so great a thing, but it was the last straw. The elders spoke to the Keeper, the Keeper sighed yet again, and Samhal was told to say his goodbyes. He packed everything that he could claim as his and a few things that he could not and wore his shemlen clothes. His brother looked to the side and could not watch him go. 

Samhal lied with his smile as he walked through the clan and left. 

He walked, and kept walking, until he walked through the high gates of Tantervale. He asked in the market, he asked in the public houses, and at last he found himself knocking at the door of the best-reputed madame in Tantervale. When he was brought to Cerise’s study, he offered her a unique asset with which to enhance the fame of her house. After a brief discussion and a thorough inspection, she welcomed her little fox to the fold.

The smile that lied became second nature—a thin shield but the best one he had—and it served him well through the years, and protected him from the harms that were always around him. He saw them, but they did not touch him. The smile kept him safe and warm until curiosity got the better of him and everything changed and the rules changed.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh...bit of a warning on this one for descriptions of PTSD and flashbacks.

When Samhal woke up, Solas was reading quietly beside the bed. Bewildered, he lurched upright, and the world spun. Everything hit him at once—the pain, the nausea, the memories. Solas’ hand pushed a soothing chill to the nape of his neck and helped him fight down the initial wave of sickness.

“Drink first, then lie down slowly.” Solas pushed an open potion into Samhal’s hand, and he obeyed numbly. He curled up facing the wall and waited for the vertigo to subside.

He remembered the tavern hazily, the minutes in Cullen’s tent even less well. He remembered Cassandra, stiff and miserable, avoiding his eyes as she helped him strip and rinse off. He didn’t remember putting on sleep clothes or getting into bed, and he wondered if she’d had to do that, too. He still smelled whiskey and bile.

Small sounds filtered in from outside—something heavy falling followed by an angry shout, the rhythmic clang of a striking team in the smithy, children playing. Paper slid against paper as Solas turned a page, but he said nothing. 

Samhal stared at a knot in the rough wood of the wall to keep the world steady.

“I thought he was going to kill me. I didn’t…I just…”

He trailed off and concentrated for a moment on the spreading warmth of the potion.

“I swear I wasn’t like this before. I never did things like this before. I had everything under control.”

“I had not supposed you had survived many such displays.”

Samhal carefully explored the knot on the back of his head with his fingertips. Well, it was much less serious than basically everything else about this.

“I guess everyone in Haven knows everything.”

“To my knowledge, yes, everyone knows about your antics in the tavern. As for the Commander, he is widely reported to have nightmares. I believe that Leliana simply encouraged those who found you in the Commander’s tent to respect the privacy of the Herald and Commander.”

Samhal laughed bitterly. “Oh, I have people to clean up my messes now, do I? Posh!” He rolled his face into the pillow to block out the morning light.

He had known the rules, before. They had been ugly, unfair rules, sure, but he’d gamed them for years. He had known what fine gifts and compliments meant. He’d be the last to deny that the night before had not been his best work—sober, he would have known that a man of the Commander’s sensibilities required a less direct approach. But that wasn’t what last night had felt like. It had felt like he’d failed to understand the situation completely and nearly gotten himself killed. He didn’t really know why he _wasn’t_ dead, in fact, and until he understood the new rules he didn’t know how to stay safe. He felt raw and naked and terribly small.

But all he said was, “What are you scowling at? I know I fucked up.”

……………

Cullen was struggling with the sick headache and pinging joints that now seemed to follow use of his templar powers. He had forced himself out of bed after a handful of wasted hours staring blindly at the tent roof, but throwing himself into his work wasn’t helping. Every nerve was raw. Every motion in the corner of his eye sent his heart rate soaring. Every attempt to understand the events of the night before started with the sudden, invasive weight on his chest, between his legs, the slithering, smiling presence, and ended with him fighting to conceal his disorientation and panicked breathing from the constant flow of people around him.

He was furious at his fear and terrified by his fury. It was his job to be in control—he _had_ to be in control—but nothing, nothing was in control. His drills were merciless, his inspections ruthless, and more than one blooded soldier was left trembling in his wake, but none of it helped.

By the second day the hammering of his head and ache of his joints had faded to a more manageable level. The terror and anger had receded somewhat, only to be replaced by dismay and that old friend, shame. When he asked, Cassandra assured him that the Herald was well enough, but by the end of the second day he still had not seen the other man. He had shadowy, discordant memories of a small form curled in on itself, and the scent of vomit had lingered a while in his tent, but it was all unclear. One thing he could remember well enough, though. He had promised himself he would try to befriend the Herald, and had attacked him instead.

……………………

Cullen was coming out of Josephine’s office midmorning of the third day after Satinalia when they came face to face. He stiffened reflexively, and Samhal contracted into himself. They stood staring at each other for a moment, each frozen halfway into their reactions.

Samhal recovered first. Everything about him changed, eyes turned away and down, shoulders rounded. When he spoke, his voice was disconcertingly devoid of its usual inflection.

“Ser. I apologize for any offense I have given. I apologize for going where I was not welcome. I misunderstood your intentions; the fault is entirely mine. I am at your mercy. Just tell me what you would have of me.”

Cullen gaped.

“I don’t…I…I don’t think I understand.”

A messenger glanced curiously at them standing there frozen as she passed by. 

Samhal looked up and tried again.

“I’m sorry.”

_I’m sorry. Please don’t. Please don’t._ Cullen lifted an arm to rub the ache at the base of his head, and Samhal flinched and backed away several steps before making a jerky nod and turning to make his escape. Cullen stood for a minute longer, and then lowered himself to a bench and stared at his hands.

…………………

The tavern had been safe. The Commander never went to the tavern that Samhal had seen. Varric had obviously heard something, but was sensitive to Samhal’s desire to avoid the subject and spent the afternoon spinning an atmosphere of cheerful relaxation in his little corner kingdom. 

There was a subtle change in the texture of the other patrons’ posture towards Samhal. A few came up, varyingly bold or shy or stammering, to introduce themselves, a couple mentioning that they had had the “honor” of seeing his performance the other night. There were whispers and glances, but also smiles. One woman sent over a drink, along with a smirk Samhal had no trouble translating. Clearly, the Herald’s pedestal had been shortened a bit.

He was returning through twilight to his cabin when he saw the large form by his door. The Commander was pacing over packed snow, his bulky outline unmistakable, head pivoting, hunting through the deepening dusk. Samhal backpedaled around the corner of the last building. 

He couldn’t. He couldn’t. Not now, not here, in the dark and alone. His chest tightened and he sucked hard at cold air, trying to slow his breathing, before turning on his heel to retrace his steps—back past the tavern and to Solas’ door.

When Solas opened to his knock, Samhal stared blankly for a moment. “Can I—“ He felt his face twitch, but only for a moment and then he was composed. “I’m bored and my cabin’s cold. Tell me a story?”

Solas considered him for a moment, eyebrows slightly raised.

“Tell me about the Fade. I don’t think I understand yet how spirits decide which impressions to hold on to. Teach me.”

Solas relented, smiling. “You are not so subtle as you believe yourself, lethallin, but very well. Come in.” 

The cabin was small and spare, and there was really nowhere to rest in comfort but the narrow bed. The two elves lay side against side under the blankets, cocooned in the warmth of a small woodstove and the graceful rhythms of Solas’ voice, punctuated periodically by questions from Samhal. There was no light but the little that filtered through the small window, and as the dusk deepened, Solas became a shape, a voice, a line of warmth against Samhal’s side. Samhal turned to press himself more closely against that warmth, throwing an arm over Solas’ chest, and Solas hesitated a moment in his latest explanation but continued in the same tone.

A loud knock on the door broke the moment of peace, and Samhal tensed immediately, hand curling in Solas’ sweater. Solas glanced at him, and set him gently aside to get up. Left behind, Samhal crept further under the rough blanket.

Solas opened the door only a hand’s-width, to keep the warmth in and the cold out.

“Commander. What can I do for you at this hour?”

“I apologize for the late interruption.” Cullen sounded awkward and hesitant. “I…was looking for the Herald. I wish to...to speak with him, and he has not returned to his cabin. I was…I have heard that he has been spending time in your company, and I thought you might know where to find him. I was…I am concerned.”

“Then let me reassure you. The Herald is well and accounted for. He did come to me to further his studies and opted to retire without going back out in the cold. I trust that whatever you need to say can wait for the morning.”

“So he’s there? Serah Lavellan, are you there?” Samhal saw the door lurch open another hand’s-breadth before Solas braced a foot against it. “I just wanted to—to explain a little.”

“Again, I am sure it can wait. The Herald has retired. He has not been well. Thank you, and have a pleasant evening.” With that, Solas put his shoulder to the door and closed it.

Samhal was a tense ball under the blankets when Solas came back, nudging him gently to make space on the small mattress.

“The Commander seems very anxious to speak with you.”

“I heard.”

“The two of you will need to find a way to work together. He seems a competent commander and an asset to the Inquisition.”

“I already apologized.” Samhal abruptly uncoiled and rolled over, throwing a leg across Solas’ thigh, and mouthed along Solas’ collarbone.

“Nonetheless, you ought to speak with him.”

“The Herald has _retired_ for the evening. Fuck, man, I’m trying to distract you. Pay attention.” He nipped at Solas’ shoulder just below the neck and traced open lips up the column of his neck to catch an earlobe, and the older man let out a puff of breath that might have been pleasure or amusement.

“I thought you were here to hear about spirits?”

“I am! This is very important research. Spirits respond to strong emotion, right?” Samhal rolled languidly against Solas’ hip and searched with his fingers for the bottom edge of the other man’s sweater. “So do you ever see spirits re-enacting truly epic sex?” He found the edge and teased fingers under the waist of Solas’ leggings, enjoying the reflexive tensing of the muscles there. 

“The spirits do sometimes reflect moments of passion, yes. I do not generally observe. Even if the original events were centuries ago, I would not intrude.” He shifted uncomfortably. Samhal giggled against his jaw and scooped a hand down to straighten Solas’ trapped erection.

“Well, Ser Tightpants, you can _intrude_ on me anytime.”

Suddenly, Solas palmed Samhal’s hips and lifted him to lay chest to chest. He freed one hand and summoned a wisp to shed its slight light. Startled, Samhal looked down at him.

“I did not send the Commander away in expectation of reward. I would have you lie with me only if you wish it for yourself. Because it pleases _you_ to do so. No false pretense. I would take no payment for basic kindness. I will not lie with you if that is the only way you are able to see it.” His face was almost frighteningly intense, his eyes searching for Samhal’s response, and it stopped Samhal’s first, flippant response.

“You really mean it, don’t you? You’re really worried.”

“Is it so difficult to imagine?”

The wisp shifted and flickered, and light played across Solas’ face, highlighting the length of his nose and the stark lines of his cheek and jaw. Samhal studied them in silence as he turned the idea over.

 

“Okay. Alright, I’m sorry. Let’s start over.” Samhal sat back, resting his chin on his knees. “Thank you for letting me hide. Thank you for understanding. I have not…I have not come to expect such consideration. Now please, if you would like to, I would very much like to make love to you, because I think that would feel very good right now and I want you.”

Solas scanned Samhal’s face for a moment longer before a warm smile spread across his face.

“It would please me greatly, lethallin.”

Matching his smile, Samhal knelt down to brush his lips over the corner of Solas’ mouth. Solas turned into it and they met with a sudden rush of warmth. After a moment’s hesitation, Solas pushed into the kiss with a surprising hunger, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Samhal’s head, the other fisting in his shirt, tugging him closer. Samhal’s lips opened involuntarily as he fell into the sensation, tongue seeking, all art momentarily forgotten. It was startling when Solas pulled back.

“One more condition.”

Samhal’s nose crinkled in irritation. “What?!”

“The night is long. There is no rush. And for tonight I would take no pleasure for myself. Will you consent to accept my attentions without returning them?”

Samhal’s eyes widened, and then his lips curled back in a broad grin. “Well I dunno, but I’ll see what I can manage.”

The winter night _was_ long, and Solas did not rush as he carefully took Samhal apart, piece by piece, and then put him back together again even more carefully—perhaps a little less alone and afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so sorry that I took so long to write a not-at-all-long chapter. I wrote and re-wrote, researched, talked it over with anyone who would listen, and generally struggled like crazy with this chapter. Comments greatly appreciated--it really helps to know a bit about whether we're all headed where I meant to get together.


	23. Chapter 23

Solas was up and gone by the time Samhal woke the next morning. The only sign of him was the divot in the straw tick that Samhal had sprawled across in his absence, but Samhal remembered the warmth of his body. Samhal's dreams, for a rarity, had been nothing but pleasant--rambles through his childhood, his mother's laughter as he showed her how high he could climb after the ripe pears. For a while, he stayed under the blankets, as relaxed and content as he could remember being in a long time.

Gradually, though, a commotion outside pulled at the loose threads of his attention. He put himself together as best he could and followed the noise to find that the first caravan since the snows fell had forged its way up the mountain. A pair of druffalo stood at the head of each sledge, pawing and steaming in the sun. In the first sledges, he saw turnips, onions, cabbages, assorted frozen and salted meats, hard winter apples, all packed in straw-filled crates. Two carried nothing but lumber, and others bore boxes and barrels whose contents were less obvious, but the last sledge stood apart. For one thing, it was heavily guarded by grim-faced dwarves. It bore only three crates, strapped securely and marked over with cautionary instructions. As Samhal watched curiously, a templar he didn't recognize arrived, and after a brief exchange a tattooed dwarf opened one crate. The templar reached in almost reverently, and pulled out a single vial, examining it closely. Samhal looked away, sneering.

"Serah Lavellan?"

Samhal stifled a yelp as he spun to face the Commander.

"Forgive me. I should have thought not to come on you by surprise." 

Repressing the urge to step back, Samhal composed his face to neutrality.

"What can I do for you, Commander?"

If Cullen was affected by the deliberate formality of Samhal's address, he showed nothing. "I had hoped for a chance to speak alone with you. To apologize for my behavior the other night."

Samhal must have failed to cover his fear and reluctance well enough, because Cullen's face fell a bit.

"Forgive me. Again. You have every right to be afraid. I thought we might walk by the water, in the open. And--" He hesitated, brow furrowing. "Perhaps someone to accompany at a distance? Master Tethras is known to us both." That last was spoken as a question, and after another moment's pause, Samhal nodded.

"Now?"

"Please, if you are free. I confess it has been preying on my mind."

Samhal shoved down his terror ruthlessly and offered a tight smile with his next nod. "Very well, let's go see Varric."

Cullen turned immediately and suited actions to words, moving so quickly that Samhal found himself scrambling after on shorter legs. Cullen was already speaking with Varric in the tavern when Samhal caught up. Varric acknowledged his arrival with a quick grin.

"I thought you two might have a little something to work out. Alright, I'm happy to freeze my ass off for a good cause. Feel sorta responsible anyway." Samhal took the opportunity to catch Varric's eye before flicking his gaze away to where the crossbow rested against Varric's chair. Varric turned immediately and scooped her up.

"Hope you don't mind if Bianca comes along too. I can't leave her alone with all these roughnecks." He made an expansive gesture that took in the tavern at large, which, at this hour, was notably quiet, populated primarily by people with a little spare coin grabbing a nicer lunch than would be offered later at the Chantry.

The three of them walked through the village, Cullen and Samhal half-listening while Varric regaled them with a convoluted tale involving cousins, two casks of dwarven ale, and a prized goose that had played out the evening before in the tavern. Varric did an infinitely better job than the other two of making it look like a casual stroll, while Cullen struggled to match pace with the shorter men. As they passed the last of the buildings, Varric looked to Samhal for confirmation. At Samhal's tiny nod, he slowed his pace to fall back. 

"Play nice, gentlemen. Something tells me we'll need you both to bring your best game."

Mage and warrior walked on for a while in tense silence. 

Samhal spoke first. “Please allow me to apologize again for my actions the other night. I was extremely intoxicated. Not that that is any excuse, of course, but I had thought…never mind.”

“No, please, continue. I would very much like to know why you would do such a thing.”

Samhal started to run through his childish fingerplay to soothe himself and found it thwarted by heavy gloves. He repressed a small snarl. He couldn’t seem to decide whether the man was his death waiting to happen or an absurd innocent.

“The hood.”

“The hood?” Cullen glance over, eyebrows furrowed.

“Yes, the hood!” Samhal tugged angrily at the offending garment where it fell over his shoulders. “Why in the great Beyond _did_ you give it to me?” He snapped his mouth shut. Why in the names of the Creators could he not control his tongue these days?

“It was a Satinalia gift! And…ah…I had thought that perhaps you could use a friend.”

Samhal’s step stuttered and he broke through the hard crust of the snow, stumbling for a second before he caught himself.

There were a thousand things he could say to that, but none that he felt he _should_ , and so he confined himself to a short, uninflected, “friend.”

“Apologies if I presumed.”

“No, that’s… I took it as an indication that you wished to move forward with my offer to share your bed.” Cullen made a small choking noise. “In my state…hah…I thought you were just shy, and would appreciate a little initiative.” 

He glanced over at Cullen, who was making faces like a landed fish, mouth opening and closing, and the evil streak his Keeper had so mourned seized him.

"So you _really_ don't want to fuck me? You're sure? Not even a little bit?"

" _Maker's breath!_ I don't...not...I don't really see how that's relevant. Even if...I would never..." Cullen gathered himself with a desperate breath before gasping out, "It would be wholly inappropriate! Our respective positions, your status as the Herald, would not permit such relations!" Cullen sputtered to a stop, red even in the biting cold.

“I’m sorry. That was unworthy.” Samhal forcibly stilled the twitching of the corners of his mouth. Somehow it was difficult to feel properly afraid, despite memory, when it was so easy to reduce the man to a stammering mess.

Clearing his throat, Cullen made a better effort. “"I would value your friendship, but I cannot offer more. Although I suppose I should not hope for that now."

"Because you nearly killed me?"

"Because I nearly killed you, yes."

Samhal mulled this over for a while as he watched the ground--Cullen's deep prints in the snow, his own light dints in the crust.

"I hear you have nightmares."

That startled a short "yes" out of Cullen, but his face tightened.

"A couple of the girls back home--back in Tantervale, I mean--had nightmares sometimes. Mostly about...things...that happened. Before. One of them would thump you if you touched her while she was dreaming." Samhal’s tone left the thought open, not a statement so much as an invitation.

The wind whistled through yet another space in the conversation, pushing the fur lining of the hood against Samhal’s cheek and forcing him to concentrate on his footing. Cullen walked along, mantle ruffling, less affected by the push of the wind.

“I am sorry for your friend, though I sincerely hope our experiences had little in common.”

“You thought I was a demon.”

Cullen nodded, and then remembered himself and said, “Yes. When I was younger, I was…I do not speak of it, but since it has intruded on your life now…” He took a steadying breath. “I was held captive for some time, and…tormented…by demons. I dream of it still.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I thought that wasn’t supposed to be possible.”

Cullen offered no comment.

“So I fucked up even worse than I thought.”

“And as noted, I did nearly kill you. It hardly seems a measured response to a misunderstanding.”

“Ahh…and…I. I also assumed unjust things about you.” Might as well be thorough. 

“I suppose I could hardly blame a Dalish apostate for having a low opinion of the Order. Indeed, I could hardly blame anyone, as things stand now. It is not now the Order I once joined. Nor am I proud of much of what I did in my time as a templar. I have hoped that by joining the Inquisition I can do more good.”

“I was wrong about you, though, and I usually make a point of not being wrong.” Samhal was still furious with himself over it.

“And I begin to feel that I do not truly know you at all, Serah Lavellan.”

“Please, Samhal or Fox.”

Cullen looked unconvinced.

“Do you play chess, Serah…Samhal?” 

Samhal considered his options and settled on, “I have played.”

“Perhaps sometime you could share a game with me?”

Friends, was it? People did all sorts of absurd things for friends in the stories—yes that would do nicely. He favored Cullen with a warm smile.

“I’d be glad to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the shortness of this chapter. I wrote and rewrote and rewrote what I have here. I meant to include another section, but for the next few days I need to turn my attention to RL concerns and I thought we'd all rather have this now than wait still longer.


	24. Chapter 24

When the merchants’ sledges went back down the mountain, Samhal and the others went with them. Cullen and Leliana sent those of the scouts and soldiers they deemed ready for service along as well. Once they reached the foothills, the larger group turned towards the Fereldan Hinterlands once more and other, smaller groups split off to investigate rumors and reports further afield.

The Crossroads were still grim and grey, but with the help of Mother Giselle and the Inquisition troops who had stayed behind, improvements had been wrought. Some refugees had risked the return home and others had moved on in hopes of something better elsewhere. Those that remained had fallen into a thin, threadbare sort of domesticity. Canvas tents were insulated with makeshift heaps of brush and dried leaves. Families clustered around shared cookfires, and the ever-present smell of wood smoke filled the air. Somewhere a woman sang a lullabye, and children shouted as they chased a rag ball up and down the path.

For three nights, Samhal had lain awake at night, the warmth of Solas’ back against his. For three nights he had stared at canvas walls and repeated the same thoughts to himself. This was what he was now. Herald of Andraste. A figurehead. Prophet—or harbinger?—of a god that meant nothing to him. A hope that he himself could not share in. The only way out, the only safety, lay in seeming to be everything they wanted. The hero they wanted.

This time, Samhal led the Inquisition as they walked to the Crossroads, and he carried his head high, and he smiled. When the refugees clustered around him, he held his arms out and let them touch him. He accepted their thanks, their blessings, their praises and their pleas, and he smiled. He saw, through the crowd, the figures that hung back and the faces not wreathed in awe, and he knew that any one of them could be a knife in his ribs, but still he smiled.

After the refugees had at last been dispersed, he and the companions conferred with their chief scouts and the lieutenant who had been left in charge, and then retreated to an Inquisition shelter to consider their next step. As the tent flap closed, Samhal sagged almost imperceptibly and reached up to massage the corners of his jaw.

“Smile muscles cramping up there, Fox?”

“Out of practice, thanks to you assholes. Anyway, so. We’ve got fishy bandits to the east, half a dozen sighted rifts, and refugees we haven’t contacted yet someplace called, uh, Wintersend Tower?”

“Winterwatch,” corrected Cassandra.

“Whatever. That.”

Solas cleared his throat. “If it is true that there is a rift actually within the fortress where the refugees are gathered, that would seem to be a point of some urgency. Also, did not the elven gentleman with the ailing wife say that his son was to be found there?”

“Right, okay. That’s two reasons to head south first. Any compelling reasons not to? Alright then. Let’s go hero some more I guess.”

……………

The way to Winterwatch Tower was hindered by templar stragglers, unwise bandits, and not one but two rifts. There was little energy remaining at the end of the day for lessons, but through regular fighting Samhal became steadily more proficient with magic and learned a great deal about his relationship to it. He loathed ice—there was more than enough of that in his life already—and loved the radiance and heat of fire, but hated the way it killed. Fire he saved for demons. Lightning, despite Solas’ patience, continued to elude him but for the smallest spark. 

He more than made up for all with the speed at which he explored and improved his control of the quiet unraveling that was entropy magic. The others became accustomed to taking advantage of the sudden stark blankness of an enemy’s face as they grappled with sudden confusion, to recognize the look of shock that accompanied unexpected paralysis. Fights became gradually easier with no apparent cause save the almost invisible swirling of motes of black around first one enemy and then another, though nothing stopped the blazing heat of terror from filling him at the beginning of every fight.

Winterwatch, when they reached it, was a substantial fortress. Cassandra’s announcement at the gate brought forth—eventually—a sharp-faced woman who looked as if she smelled something bad. 

“I know you. They call you the Herald of Andraste for what you did at Haven. But are you? The Maker has not told me.”

“If the Maker has spoken to you, it’s more than he’s done for me, but yes, I am the one they call the Herald.”

“Then stories of you mastering the rifts are just blind heresy.”

“Not at all. I have the power to seal the rifts, and am fully prepared to do so.”

“Then do so. Show me that the rifts bend to your will—the will of the Maker. Show me the power you wield.”

Since he honestly couldn’t think of anything else civil to say to this hatchet of a woman, Samhal simply strode past her, and let the itching of his hand guide him to the rift, clearly visible in a grotto at the rear of the fortress. As he drew near, the rift responded to the Mark and spat out a pair of gangly terrors. Someone behind him shrieked. Well, this would certainly be his first fight with an _audience_. Better make it good.

He opened with a fire spell that was more flash and glitter than power, but as Cassandra pelted past him he began to quietly spin his true power under cover of Solas’ ice and lightning. He sewed paralysis and weakness among the enemies while the others fought more visibly, and let the Mark flare out showily for cover. At one point a sudden yank on his collar from Solas saved him from a violent encounter with a terror, but mercifully the fight was not horribly difficult, and the silence when the last demon fell to a well-placed bolt took him by surprise. It was a moment before his body remembered with a cold rush what came next. 

Time to close the rift.

It didn’t hurt anymore, not exactly, but it was horrible and twisting in a way that he had repeatedly failed to explain to an inquisitive Solas. Unlike the rest of his magic, it seemed to come through him, rather than from him, and made his skin crawl as it used him. It tore at what he was in a way that terrified him, and usually it took him several minutes afterwards to quell his stomach and calm his breathing. 

He would not have several minutes here, and he didn’t have them now. More demons would come through if he didn’t hurry, and then he’d only have less strength to face the same problem. Before he could think about it more, he threw up the Marked hand and let it snare the edges of the rift. He fought to keep his back straight and clenched his jaw so hard it creaked as the rising panic wrestled for control of his body.

The rift snapped closed. Samhal took a breath, and then another, and forced himself to keep breathing. He turned and walked back up the stairs into the main fortress, feeling like a poorly-controlled marionette, moving first too quickly and then too slow, loose-jointed and strange. 

But he made it to the top, and stood there with his hand raised and flaring, staring blankly at the men and women who fell, one after the other, to their knees.

The woman from the gate moved through the assemblage to face Samhal.

“Maker’s tears! I was a fool to have doubted you! How may we serve you, Herald of Andraste?”

It took him a moment to process her words.

“Serve me? Serve yourselves. Serve each other. You have food and warm clothing. You have shelter. Instead of closing yourselves off, help people. Go to the Crossroads—they’re starving—freezing. Help them.” His voice sounded harsh in his own ears, but perhaps that suited well enough.

“As you say, Herald of Andraste. Some few will remain here; the rest will go forth to do your will. When the Maker calls you to your great purpose, remember that we served you.”

What did she think he was going to do, intercede with them before the Maker? That was her first response to being reminded that people were in need, was it? Inwardly, he sneered—you don’t demand that people remember you; you _make yourself memorable._ Crass and amateurish.

Cassandra’s hand fell on his shoulder, and he realized that he had been staring blankly after the retreating spokeswoman.

“The Herald is fatigued by his efforts. Is there a place we can recover in private?”

They were quickly shown to a room and, at last, left alone. Samhal went straight to the nearest bed and curled in on himself, and the others let him alone as they conferred quietly. With his grunted agreement, it was decided to stay there through the night and leave in the morning. Solas went to seek out the son of the sick woman in the Crossroads, Varric went to gather information in his own way, and Cassandra sat silently and stalwartly by the door, using the time to maintain her gear. At some point, Samhal drifted off to the steady hiss of Cassandra’s whetstone.

…………………

When Cassandra’s brusque rap on the door woke him in the morning, he threw out an arm and encountered nothing but cool sheets and the edge of the bed. He sat up grumbling before shouting to let Cassandra know he was awake, and then looked down at his rumpled clothes. Someone had taken off his boots.

They did not linger. As they were leaving, a young elven man approached, and addressed himself to Solas, holding out a small glass bottle.

“Serah—Serahs…the potion for my mother, I’ve made it.”

Samhal’s focus sharpened on the boy’s face. “You’re the one with the mother who can’t breathe?”

“Yes, Your Worship.”

“And you’re not going back to her?”

“I...I thought—“

“You have a living mother and father. You should value that before it’s taken from you.”

The young man was just beginning his stammered apologies and agreements when Samhal turned away and walked out the gate.

………………… 

They had stopped for lunch in the lee of a cluster of large boulders, pressed close in the small sheltered space to get out of the wind for a while. Samhal, glancing past Solas, saw that Cassandra had a thoughtful expression on her face as she soaked a corner of her waybread in her mug to soften it. Samhal was about to tease her for it when she finally spoke.

“The people there—they abandoned their faith so readily. To reject the Chant, and for what?”

“I suppose it only natural that some would turn to worshipping the Breach, if only in hopes of appeasing it,” Solas commented. Cassandra ate in silence for a moment, considering.

“Solas, if you do not mind me asking, what do you believe in?’

Solas looked over at her and then back out at the valley spread before them, still chewing. Samhal felt he knew the man well enough to guess that he was gauging the sincerity of Cassandra’s question—but of course, Cassandra was rarely anything but painfully earnest. Solas swallowed and cleared his throat quietly.

“Cause and effect. Wisdom as its own reward, and the inherent right of all free-willed people to exist.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“I know.” For just a moment, Solas’ face lightened—not quite a smile. “I believe the elven gods existed, as did the old gods of Tevinter. But I do not think any of them were gods, unless you expand the definition of the word to the point of absurdity. I appreciate the idea of your Maker, a god that does not need to prove his power. I wish more such gods felt the same.”

Samhal snorted.

“You do not agree?” Cassandra asked. “You follow the Dalish ways, I suppose. Surely there is room in your pantheon for one more?”

“You really want to know if the Herald of Andraste believes in the Maker? Wouldn’t you rather be able to imagine a suitable answer?”

“I would rather know the truth.”

“You really do mean that, every time, don’t you? Fucking fascinating. Alright, well, you asked. There _are_ elves who hold to the tiny shreds they know about the Creators and also the Maker at the same time. I’m not one of them. Last time I heard, the Creators are locked away and the Maker has turned his back. As far as I can tell that makes the Creators incompetent and the Maker an asshole.” 

He made sure to look Cassandra straight in the face as he delivered the last line. To his other side, he heard Varric suck a crumb of waybread down the wrong pipe and begin to cough. Cassandra’s face was the picture of shock, and Samhal repressed a grin. After a moment, she regained her composure enough to speak.

“It is true that the Maker has turned his back, but we are taught that this is the fault of his creations, who angered him when they turned from his way. If all of Thedas would turn back and sing the Chant of Light, he would smile on us once more.”

“Why? Does he get off on it? Other people’s wives, and singing--that’s what does it for your Maker?”

Cassandra’s face was a picture of horror. In Samhal’s periphery, Solas turned his head quickly away, but he could have sworn it was a laughing face that flashed by. Varric’s struggle with the crumb intensified.

“I had…thought…it is a time of great danger and sorrow. I had thought that perhaps following the Maker would give you both some hope.”

Solas, composed enough that Samhal almost doubted that momentary glimpse of hilarity, said, “I have people, Seeker. The greatest triumphs and tragedies this world has known can all be traced to people.”

Finally conquering his difficulties, Varric said, “I’d think that right there would be enough to make you want to believe in a benevolent higher power, the shit we’ve seen.”

Samhal scoffed. “Show me a god who actually cares about people and does whatever he can to help them, does it whether they worship him or spit on him, and maybe I’ll sing to him.”

Solas abruptly cleared his throat and stood up. “We have quite a distance to travel yet, and there are certain to be obstacles. We should keep moving.”

………………

Samhal slouched on his bedroll, still dressed, and summoned a ball of flame, letting it slowly heat the tent and drive the dew off his blankets as he lost himself in making it play over his fingers and arms. Solas, meanwhile, quietly shed his coat and equipment and climbed into bed.

“Well, what do you think, Solas? Have I been heroic enough?”

“You have carried yourself well. People follow you eagerly.”

“What a con.” Samhal laughed bitterly at himself.

“Is it? Are you not, then, the man who closed the rifts? Who turned the mages in the Witchwood to your cause without loss of life? Did you not emerge from the Fade?”

“I mean…okay, but…I had to, right? I had to do something. Doing things you have to do doesn’t make you a leader and it certainly doesn’t make you a prophet. I didn’t come from Andraste, I came from Tantervale.”

“And yet you did do the things they praise you for. If they should follow where you go, you are their leader, for good or ill.”

“If they follow _me_ it’s because they’re easily led! _You_ don’t really follow me.”

“On the contrary, I find I quite enjoy being behind you.” Solas arched both eyebrows innocently, face bland. More serious, he added, “But you should not provoke Cassandra so.”

“Why not? What’s she going to do? Hold me prisoner? Force me to fight for my life? Oh wait that’s right!”

“She does what she believes she must, as do you. As do we all. Her faith is worthy of respect.”

“And yet you laughed.”

“Am I to be the standard by which the Herald of Andraste measures what is appropriate, then?”

“Don’t you call me that! And I hope not, because if I dressed as drably as you do, I would disappear.”

“A terrible thing. Nonetheless, Cassandra does not deserve your ire. It is not she who made you Herald, and you know well enough that she would not have chosen you, and yet she supports you with all her strength.”

Samhal crinkled up his nose as if the medicine tasted bad.

“Oh, so you say. But ugh, she’s just so… _righteous_. Fine. I’ll try.”

 

Solas replied only with a small huff of near-laughter. Samhal stripped off his outer layers and crawled under the blankets, and when he found them still chilly he shuffled over, tugging the blankets with him, until he pressed against the warmth of Solas’ back, and there he went to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you'd about given up on me, eh? Actually, I've written a fair bit over the last month and a half, and I've got two more chapters nearly ready to go, but I had some new health issues to learn to deal with. Now I have a bit of an announcement--
> 
> I'm going to aim to update Thursday mornings! Maybe not *every* Thursday morning but that's the ideal.
> 
> I appropriated an entire in-game conversation here (Cassandra and Solas' lines from the religion conversation are remixed from a real banter, Solas is basically word-for-word), and to my surprise I quite liked how it came out. I hope you do too, because I'm probably gonna do it again.


	25. Chapter 25

Samhal and his companions spent a bit over a week longer in the Hinterlands before heading back to Haven for fresh supplies and a chance to confer with the Inquisition’s advisors. For the first few days after their success at Winterwatch the mood was generally optimistic—they’d done their job and people had fallen in line. Samhal had to admit it felt a little bit good.

That generally optimistic feeling died in light of the discovery that the Carta had found red lyrium and mined it, and evidently had been selling it to the templars. If Varric was to be believed—and Samhal had yet to see him half so passionate or upset—this was terrible news and warranted immediate investigation. Samhal had largely discounted some of the more absurd parts of the Tale of the Champion as fiction, animated statues and haunted houses among them, but the weight of Varric’s voice afterwards dispelled that hopeful notion.

“I thought I’d seen the last of that evil stuff in Kirkwall. I’ve written to every mining caste House in Orzammar, and no one’s seen this stuff before or knows where it came from. Red lyrium is _not_ like the regular stuff—it messes with your mind when you’re just _near_ the stuff. You hear singing, get violent, paranoid…it drove my brother mad. If templars are actually _taking_ the stuff, well—that’s terrifying.” Varric punctuated his point with a ruthless shove at a half-burned log in the fire, sending sparks bursting towards the sky. 

“We brought the shit to the surface, Bartrand and I. I feel responsible.”

That night the mood was grim, and Samhal forwent the usual sarcasm about the food. Every time he thought they were actually doing alright and had solved a problem, maybe even with some style, three more sprang up. It was exhausting. Everything was exhausting.

……………………

Messages had gone back and forth by crow, mostly their reports and Leliana’s acknowledgments. The most recent message, however, contained a request. Apparently the Wardens of Orlais were vanishing. No one had seen them, and no one knew where they had gone or why. She wanted them to find and question a Warden named Gordon Blackwall, rumored to be nearby in the Hinterlands. Samhal grumbled--“The fuck is this, am I Errand Boy in Chief? The fuck does this have to do with rifts?”—but they tracked the man down, nonetheless, and found him in the middle of very efficiently driving off yet another group of bandits. 

Blackwall was hard, openly suspicious, and understandably defensive. He was also profoundly unhelpful with regard to the mystery of the disappearing Wardens, but when he offered to join their fight Samhal was more than happy to put another competent shield between himself and danger. The man was withdrawn and watchful on the way back to Haven, but more than pulled his weight with camp tasks and complained at nothing. When Samhal commented on his quiet stoicism, Cassandra was quick to respond that someone had to balance Varric and Samhal, and she was grateful for the assist.

Haven had changed in the weeks they had been gone—there were more tents, more people on the training field, more smoke rising from more fires. Even with the new people, though, it wasn’t like the Crossroads. People stopped in their tasks and bowed or knelt, but did not gather around or try to touch him. He wondered what the difference was—maybe Leliana had passed around instructions. Maybe he just wasn’t as novel here. Or maybe here the people had ownership—he was their leader, and they claimed him. Something in his chest tightened at the thought, and he realized that he would have to give up his plans of an immediate hot bath and nap. Instead he strode straight through camp and into the Chantry.

Cassandra accompanied him of course, and this time so did Varric. Blackwall excused himself to find a place for himself among the soldiers. The advisors joined them shortly at the war table.

Despite their messaging by crow, debriefing was a slow and tedious process. Varric plead his case for urgent investigation of the red lyrium situation and Leliana agreed readily. Blackwall, the bandits, Carta involvement, and the rift-cultists were all discussed. Samhal felt numb with boredom and utterly exhausted by the time they called it a day and adjourned. He was once again eagerly anticipating a hot soak when Josephine caught gently at his arm.

“Herald, I realize that you have had a very long day and deserve your rest, but there is one more thing.” He sighed, and followed her into her office.

“While you were gone, I received this letter.”

The missive was on a piece of old parchment, scraped thin with reuse, and his heart cramped as soon as he saw the writing, crabbed and angular and still familiar after all the years.

_Clan Lavellan offers greetings to the Inquisition and wishes it well in sealing the Breach that has opened in the sky. While some Dalish clans hate humans and wish nothing to do with them, Clan Lavellan has always dealt fairly with all and wished only for peace. That said, we have on occasion been forced to defend ourselves from those who saw us only as potential victims.  
It has come to our attention that a member of our clan is being held captive by your Inquisition. Samhal Lavellan went to the Conclave only to observe the peace talks between your mages and templars, and we find it highly unlikely that he intentionally violated your customs. If he has been charged with a crime, we would appreciate hearing of it. If not, it would ease our concerns to hear from him to know that he remains with the Inquisition of his own will._

_We await your reply,  
Keeper Istimaethorial Lavellan_

Samhal swore and hurled the page, which fluttered unsatisfyingly, twisted, and hit his knee on the way down.

“What political bullshit is this, a _member_ of Clan Lavellan?” Angry tears stung at the corners of his eyes. “What do they think, they’re gonna cash in on their supposed relationship to the Herald? A bit fucking late for them to decide to care _now_.” He snatched the sheet back up, scanning it again. “And is that a _threat?_ ‘Forced to defend ourselves’ what a fucking joke. ‘Dealt fair—‘” He stopped and swallowed. “You know what, just…just don’t do anything yet. We’ll deal with this later. I need a bath.”

Samhal was halfway to the door when he turned around and met Josephine’s eyes. She stood next to her desk, hugging her arms against herself.

He jerked away. “Sorry. Fuck it. Sorry.”

……………………

When he finally stepped into his small wooden tub, all the savor was gone from the long-awaited ritual. He read the letter half a dozen times over, and then slept fitfully. Why would they even write such a letter? Why would they stick their necks out for him? What were they angling for? Did they think he would be grateful, that he needed saving, that he needed or wanted _anything_ from them? In the morning, he took a piece of paper from Josephine and wrote his reply:

_To Clan Lavellan, greetings._

_As always, I protect myself. Keep your concerns; I have no use for them, and you have no idea what you’re dealing with. The last time you imposed on our supposed kinship, it nearly killed me. Let be._

_Samhal_

Josephine promised to send an elven scout to deliver the message, as well as well-wishes and reassurances that Samhal was well and not being kept against his will. Samhal said the Dread Wolf could take them for all he cared, and left for the tavern.

……………………

Lunch that day was turnip stew, a tough, dark rye bread, and pickled eggs. Samhal had been eating quietly, watching the other patrons watch him, when Varric broke into his thoughts.

“Well, spill it.”

Samhal scowled at Varric. “Spill what?”

“Whatever’s got you twitching like someone put a burr under your saddle.”

“What makes you think my business is any of yours?”

“Nothing, but I’d rather not be the one to go flying if you buck.”

Samhal’s jaw flexed as he thought. At last, he reached into his coat, and flicked the offending letter across the table. Varric picked it up and scanned it quickly, and then contemplated Samhal over the top of the page.

“They could just want to know that you’re alright.”

“And if I wasn’t, what the fuck do they think they’d do about it? Form a raiding party? Nah, they’re angling.”

Varric watched Samhal poke down another bite of bland, bitter stew and tear off a chunk of bread as if it had wronged him, and then leaned back in his seat.

“You know, a few years back, my brother and I—“

Samhal slashed a hand through the air angrily. “Can we _not_ have storytime with Uncle Varric right now?”

“Wow, tough audience. Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to say anything about how you have to love them or forgive them or nugshit like that. I was just going to say that whether you like it or not, they’re where you came from. They’re part of you. And one way or another it’ll be easier if you come to grips with that.”

“’It’s part of me.’ I fucking know it’s part of me, it’s etched on my fucking face, okay? It’s _all_ of me as far as half the world is concerned. Oh the thrill they felt, to have the knife-eared savage on his knees for them. I left and I left and I left and it’s still part of me. Don’t you ever want it to stop? Don’t you ever want to put a bolt through the next person to ask you what happened to your beard or make a short joke?”

“Yes. Sometimes. But as a very remarkable woman once said, they don’t know me. I know me.”

“Huh.”

Samhal returned silently to the stew, eyes tight. Varric watched him for a minute, and then returned to copying out another letter.

………………………

Passing the Chantry later that afternoon, Samhal found himself accosted by a man in unfamiliar armor.

“Excuse me, I’ve got a message for the Inquisition but I’m having a hard time getting anyone to talk to me.”

Samhal glanced around at the bustle of midmorning in this strange, ever-shifting combination of village, military encampment, and refugee camp, but found no one nearby he could foist this new person off on. He shrugged.

“Apparently I’m someone. Who are you?”

“Cremisius Aclassi, with the Bull’s Chargers mercenary company. We mostly work out of Orlais and Nevarra. We’ve got word of some Tevinter mercenaries gathering out on the Storm Coast. My company commander Iron Bull offers the information free of charge. If you’d like to see what the Bull’s Chargers can do for the Inquisition, meet us there and watch us work.”

“Okay, hang on, slow down. You’ve had that ready to go for a while now, eh?”

“Sorry, ser.”

Samhal looked at the newcomer a little more closely—a man in full armor, addressing a tiny elf with a staff on his back as ‘ser’. Either he figured that any mage that wasn’t locked up must be protected by something significant, or…no, what had the name been? Aclassi…

“You’re Tevinter.”

The mercenary shifted his footing warily. “Was once. Not for years now, and I wouldn’t be welcome back, if you’re worried about spies.”

“No, I just…never mind that. Come with me, and you can make your pitch to the Commander. I’m more used to mercenaries hiring me than me hiring mercenaries, but I don’t remember any Iron Bull.” He called to a passing scout, who came forward with a deep bow.

“Your Worship?”

“Do you know where Commander Rutherford is at the moment?”

“I believe I saw him speaking with the master smith, Your Worship. Shall I fetch him?”

“No, it’s not far. Thank you.”

The scout bowed again before leaving.

“Your Worship?” 

Samhal turned to grin toothily at the mercenary.

“Sincere apologies, Your Worship. I didn’t realize who I was speaking to.”

“And yet you were professional and polite to a tattooed elf with a staff on his back. You, Cremisius Aclassi, I might actually like. Come on then.”

Cullen was not to be found at the armory, but they followed an apprentice’s instructions to a hut not far away which was being used as a storeroom and found him there. The man made his pitch again, this time to an intently frowning Commander.

“Iron Bull. That’s a…colorful name. I suppose we might find a place for well-trained fighters, though it depends on what you’re asking. What can you tell me about your leader?”

“Iron Bull? He’s one of those Qunari. The…big guys with the horns? He leads from the front, he pays well, and he’s a lot smarter than the last bastard I worked for. Best of all he’s professional. We accept contracts with whoever makes the first real offer. You’re the first time he’s gone out of his way to pick a side.”

As the man spoke, Cullen’s eyebrows shot up and then drew down hard. “ _Qunari_? Or Tal-Vashoth? I have been given little reason to trust either.”

“I don’t know about that, ser, but he’s never been anything but fair to me. We’re loyal, we’re tough, and we don’t break contracts. Ask around Val Royeaux. We’ve got references.”

Cullen scrubbed a hand down his stubbled cheeks, face still dubious. 

“You say your captain actually wants to join us,” Samhal filled in.

“Bull wants to work for the Inquisition. He thinks you’re doing good work.”

“He seems quite well-informed, then. News travels fast. And would the contract take into account that so far saving the world doesn’t pay all that well?” Samhal smiled encouragingly, first at the mercenary and then at a still-frowning Cullen.

“I couldn’t speak for the captain, naturally, but I expect he understands such concerns. Any more questions, sers?”

Cullen shook his head. “None for now. We’ll consider your offer and let you know soon.”

“I appreciate it. We’re the best you’ll find. Come to the Storm Coast and you can see us in action.”

……………………

Leliana was immediately in favor of making the trip to the Storm Coast. Apparently her ongoing search for information about the Grey Wardens pointed to the same area, but scouts she had sent after more information were well past their last scheduled report. She had, she said, already intended to ask that the Herald journey there next.

“And we can hardly afford to let a trained and professional troop of fighters pass us by without at least due consideration, yes? Whatever this Iron Bull’s reason for his offer, you say the lieutenant presents himself well, and they are not asking that we take them on without a proper evaluation. On the face of it, it seems more than fair.”

“I am keenly aware of our lack of seasoned troops. But this Iron Bull—how can we put our trust in a Qunari? If he is truly Qunari, then his loyalty will be always to the Qun whatever he may tell us—Sister Nightingale, I know you are versed in the events in Kirkwall. Viscount Dumar treated fairly with the Qunari for years, and he died on the Arishok’s sword. And if he should prove to be what they call Tal-Vashoth, they are no better than savages.”

“My dear Commander, I am mindful of the past. If you cannot trust a man to be what you want him to be, then you must take a careful look at what he _is_ , and then trust him to be that.”

“I don’t see how that helps. If I cannot trust a man to obey my order, I cannot trust him at my soldiers’ backs.”

“Then put him in front. Come now, Commander, I have faith in your creativity.”

Samhal snorted. “Look, I can only assume that nobody’s pointing this out out of some misguided desire to spare my feelings, but the fact is that we’re probably riddled with spies anyway. In case you forgot, _I came here_ as a spy. If you think what we’re doing is going to be welcomed with songs of praise by the powers that be, you and I have very different takes on how power works.”

“You want them. You think we should hire these…mercenaries,” said Cassandra. “Why?”

“Well, have you seen the lot we’ve got now? Farmers and cobblers, and they stink of holy dedication and clean living, I swear. How am I supposed to take over the world with that? No, I _need_ some proper, scarred-up, whiskey-swilling warriors to fuel my reign of terror. Horns sound perfect!”

“Can you not be serious for anything?” Cassandra grunted in disgust.

“What for? Did someone make a rule? Are these meetings required to be even more boring than they already are?”

“I _do_ have a sense of humor! I would not mind had you actually answered the question. It was a simple enough request.” Cassandra’s eyes sparked lightning, and to his surprise, Samhal actually felt a pang of guilt. A small one.

“Alright, then. I like the lieutenant. I want to see the man he so clearly respects. But I haven’t got the faintest idea how to evaluate troops. I have someone who does that for me. Which is why Cullen’s coming.”

Cullen’s jaw went momentarily slack.

“Pardon?”

Samhal shrugged elaborately. “Come to the Storm Coast. You judge the mercs, I’ll judge the man, we compare notes. If we’re not both comfortable enough, we say no thanks.”

“Nonsense. My duties here do not permit me to be absent for so long.”

To Samhal’s surprise, Leliana threw in on his side. “But it is very good, yes? Who better than you to judge the company’s worth? Captain Rylen seems most competent, as do your other captains and lieutenants. Do you not believe them to be so?”

“Certainly! But—“

“Then find out whether it is so now rather than, perhaps, later when there is no time to repair our lack. You see? The journey serves multiple purposes!” She smiled winningly.

Cullen narrowed his eyes at Leliana, one hand partially raised as if he meant to say something, but then he let it fall.

“Perhaps you are right. I…very well. It would be well to see how our soldiers perform in the field, as well. Give me a day to put everything in order, and I will be ready to travel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I've used a fair bit of in-game dialogue--much of Varric's monologue on red lyrium, most of Krem's introduction, and the letter from clan Lavellan is largely unaltered, for reasons of my own. It kinda feels cheap to do but sometimes it also seems like the only sensible thing to do. Plus it's good dialogue, and it gives me checkpoints of a sort--if my writing of the characters doesn't harmonize with the in-game writing, I know I have a problem.


	26. Chapter 26

It had, in fact, taken two days to prepare for the trip to the Storm Coast—confirming duty rosters and training regimes, approving last-minute promotions and delegation, reviewing stocks and requisitions, resolving personality conflicts. But as Leliana had said, Captain Rylen and a couple of the others were quite competent, and Cullen found that leaving Haven felt surprisingly freeing.

He looked down the line of horses as the stood idle, waiting for a stray to be dug out of a loose snowdrift. Horses were not familiar territory for Cullen. The only horse his family had owned had been a stolid old cart horse, rarely ridden, and he had never sought the training of a mage-hunter. Now, he was aware that he sat his horse with more determination than grace, and his joints and muscles burned and ached in protest.

Still, he looked to better off than Varric, who rode like a barrel roped to a nag, with the stirrups shortened as far as they would go. He rolled side to side as they went, and swore over every downward slope. Further down the path was the Warden, Blackwall. He had asked leave to come along once he had got wind of their destination, expressing interest in Grey Warden artifacts he had heard might be in the area. The mercenary, who had invited them to call him Krem, rode the horse they had provided well enough, and was friendly enough when spoken to but otherwise quiet.

Samhal looked surprisingly elegant on horseback, considering that Cullen could clearly remember his complaints mere weeks ago (“If my ass is going to ache this much I really ought to have something a lot more fun than a horse to remember”). Now, he moved as gracefully in the saddle as on foot. Cullen marveled at the man’s ability to adapt.

They left the horses stabled at a small trade town in the north. The rocky, craggy Storm Coast was no place for horses, though they retained a few mules for gear. The group reached the shore towards evening of their seventh day of travel.

Cullen stared out over the indigo waves with a difficult mixture of awe and revulsion, the grandeur of the scene warring with memories of seasickness and agonizing withdrawal symptoms. The journey across the Waking Sea, spent on the deck and in the judging eyes of a dozen soldiers to escape the crushing enclosure of his berth, had not been a pleasant one.

“The Waking Sea. Somewhere across all that water is Kirkwall.” The tone could almost have passed for wistful if it hadn’t been Varric.

Warden Blackwall commented, “It's been a while since I was at sea. Traveling to Haven must have been quite the journey.”

Varric snorted. “Between Cassandra's friendly company and Cullen's feelings on sea travel - it was great.” He thumped Cullen on the back with a broad hand before moving away.

Glancing sideways, Cullen was caught by the unguarded brightness on Samhal’s face as he contemplated the view.

“What do you see that makes you smile so?” he asked.

“All that freedom. No one to please. Just salt and wind.”

“Would you wish to be a sailor, then?”

Samhal stared out at the horizon, momentarily still, and then shrugged with his whole body.

“Nah. The food’s terrible and the salt was murder on my skin. No place for me.” He turned away abruptly, as if summarily dismissing the entire ocean.

…………………

They spent the first night at the camp the lead scouts had established, moving swiftly ahead of the main party. Cullen was pleased with the neatness of the camp, the quiet cohesiveness and general restraint of the scouts and troop. As on previous nights, he savored the excuse to lay his bedroll out under the stars next to the fire’s embers, despite the biting cold. The headaches always seemed less in the cold.

They rose early the next morning, as they had throughout the journey. He was quietly entertained by Samhal’s frowsy, sulky morning faces, and fascinated by the transformation, after proper application of tea, to what Varric termed “Herald face”. 

After breakfast, it began to rain, a vile mix that couldn’t decide whether it was rain or sleet, slicking the tumbled rocks of the shore dangerously. The phlegmatic Krem led them down the stony beach to his fellows without comment, though.

They found the Chargers—or rather, the outer sentry of the Chargers—around midday. One moment the woman was not there, the next she was stepping in front of them, clasping hands familiarly with Krem.

Cullen studied the woman with interest as she and Krem conferred quietly. Elven. A strange bow across her back, complex tattoos across her face, a little like Samhal’s, a little like Hawke’s friend Merrill, not quite like either. Dalish, then, presumably, but she was clearly a companion of Krem’s. He glanced to the side, but Samhal’s face was shuttered tightly as he watched the woman.

Krem gestured them nearer. “The ‘Vints are up ahead, offloading more men from a ship further out. We’re waiting ‘til they’re all off before we jump ‘em, but if you want a good vantage to watch us work you’ll need to start circling up the hills now.”

“Cullen, this is your show. How do you want to play it?” Samhal asked.

“Sister Leliana will want captives to question, and I don’t think there’s a need to leave the Chargers on their own. I can evaluate from the front lines.”

And so they did. They came even with the Chargers—truly a mixed lot—just as they broke cover to attack the Tevinters. The Iron Bull—instantly recognizable with his massive stature and jutting horns—acknowledged their advent and Cullen’s bellowed request for prisoners without batting an eye. 

There were mages among the Tevinters. Cullen caught a blast of ice on his shield and followed to its source, charging. Another blast of ice curled around him, burning against his bare cheeks, before he cannoned into the mage, sending the man flying. Before his opponent could re-compose himself, Cullen smashed his pommel into the man’s helmet just above the temple, crumpling it and knocking him out. 

Cullen turned to observe the fighting, then, for a moment. Things seemed to be well in hand, in fact—the Chargers were acquitting themselves well and efficiently. The Warden, Blackwall, fought with admirable power and precision and had clearly been well-trained and well-seasoned. Another flash of ice made him flinch slightly until he realized that it had struck an enemy and traced it back to the apostate Solas, standing a space apart with Samhal just behind him.

And then there was the Qunari, the so-called Iron Bull. Huge—even larger, he thought, than any of the ones he had fought in Kirkwall. Grey like them, shirtless like them, but somehow his entire countenance was different. Despite a patch that covered one eye, he showed a greater range of expression than Cullen thought he had seen out of the Qunari in the entirety of his previous exposure to them. Both the laughter and the snarls seemed out of place where he had only ever seen blank stoicism before.

The battle was over quickly—before he had cause, even, to engage another enemy.

“Chargers! Stand down. Krem, how’d we do?” The Qunari’s bass rumble commanded attention, no doubting that.

Krem, leaning against his astonishingly huge maul, responded with, “Five or six wounded, chief. No dead.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Check around, treat and tie up anyone living, then break out the casks.” He turned and eyed Cullen appraisingly, but then turned away, studying and dismissing Cassandra and Blackwall as well before he spotted the two elves standing apart, staves in hand, and focused in on them. 

“So you’re with the Inquisition, huh? Glad you could make it. Come on, have a seat, drinks are coming.” And the Iron Bull sat down on a rain-soaked boulder with as much ease and ownership as if they were in a proper office.

Samhal caught Cullen’s eye, shrugged ever so slightly, and put on his habitual smile before picking his way carefully between the fallen to stand in front of the Iron Bull—they were just about at eye-level that way, with the mercenary sitting and the Herald standing.

As Samhal and the Iron Bull spoke and the Chargers went over the field, Cullen watched and listened and weighed, and when Samhal excused himself to speak with his companions, Cullen had his answer.

“His people trust and respect him, and unless I am much mistaken, he returns their trust and respect. They jest with him, and he accepts it. He is…nothing like the Qunari I have encountered before.”

“Yeah, but…I mean, he told us right up front that he’s a spy. That’s…that’s weird, right Varric?” Samhal turned to the dwarf for an answer.

“Oh, it’s weird alright. Everything about it is weird. But you know, if the Qun wants to know what we’re doing, and we don’t take him, we’ll just get someone else—someone we can’t see.”

Samhal pulled a face. “If it’s someone who’s not seven feet tall and expecting to sleep in the next tent over with his sword as tall as me I could maybe live with that. But Cullen’s right. These people trust him. They feel comfortable with him.” He looked at Cullen for confirmation, and Cullen nodded.

So Samhal shook himself a little and smiled, and turned back to the waiting mercenaries.

“Do you think we could talk somewhere a little less covered in dead people?”

…………………

While Samhal and the others ranged back into the mountains in search of Grey Wardens and the Inquisition’s missing scouts, Cullen and his soldiers escorted the Bull’s Chargers back to the main camp. As he walked, the Iron Bull came up to loom at his shoulder.

“We weren’t introduced.”

“Cullen Rutherford. Commander Cullen Rutherford.” Cullen kept his words clipped, in what he realized was probably a forlorn attempt to limit the conversation.

“Ah. So, Commander Rutherford, templar-not-templar.”

“Former templar.”

“I didn’t think there generally was such a thing.”

“A great deal of what generally was no longer is.”

“Fair enough.” The Qunari walked on for a while in silence, head moving constantly to give his one eye a chance to see everything they passed.

“You don’t like me much. You gave us the okay with your boss but you don’t like having me around.”

Cullen glanced up in surprise at the man’s blunt approach.

“I served in Kirkwall when it was burned by the Arishok and his men.”

“Well that would do it.” The Iron Bull’s bass rumble was matter-of-fact, neither defensive nor angry.

“So you were a templar in Kirkwall, then. And now you serve under a mage. How’s that working for you?”

“Are we to send a report of my entire life story to Par Vollen, then? Would you like the particulars of my birth and parentage?”

“I could just wait and ask your men. I thought I’d do you the _courtesy_ of letting you tell it your way. Alright, touchy subject, let’s try another. What’s he like? The Herald.”

Cullen’s mind flickered through the moments—Samhal, bloodied and terrified before the rift, haughty and imperious as he walked though the wondering crowd. Crude and harshly sarcastic, coy and suggestive, bitter and elaborately disinterested. Reports, unbelievable but later confirmed, of acts of bizarre bravery and apparent foolhardiness. 

Samhal, cowering on his tent floor, battered and pleading. And now, traveling beside him as though it had never happened.

He realized that he had been silent for too long.

“I…really could not say.”

………………….

It was dusk before the travelers returned to camp, and the lead scout—a heavily freckled dwarven woman with an air of calm competence—had to reassure Cullen several times that they would return, or if they did not, would still be fine.

“They’re always fine. It’s a pattern you’ll get comfortable with.”

When they did come back, Samhal marched into camp without comment, throwing down his pack and staff haphazardly before fetching himself a substantial mug of ale. Cullen eyed the drink, but said nothing.

Varric and Cassandra were more informative. Apparently they had found only traces of Grey Wardens, not enough to suggest a course of action—but the missing scouts they had found with no trouble. They had been right where they should have been. Dead. A note had been left indicating that the killing had been done by the Blades of Hessarian, a strange and fanatical religious militia. 

It would seem that the Blades had decided that the Herald and his followers were not righteous and moved to prevent them from gaining a foothold on the Storm Coast. A note had been left near the bodies, though for whom was not clear. When Cullen had finished reading, the Iron Bull extended a hand, and after a moment’s consideration he handed the note over.

_It’s not our place to disagree. They’re attempting to set themselves up along the shore, and we have orders. We are the sword, not the hand that wields it. You taught me that._

_If they’re worthy, let them come with the Mercy’s Crest. The Blades of Hessarian will listen._ You _will only get yourself cast out, or worse._

“Well at least someone in there would rather see you come out on top,” the Bull commented as he handed the sheet back to Cullen. “Nice of them to leave instructions. Don’t suppose you have a Crest of Mercy on you, though?”

No one did, but Bull and Cassandra knew what it ought to look like, at least. It would take days, though, to hike to the nearest town with a jeweler, and days back, not to mention the time to make it.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sers?” The group turned to look at the speaker, a short, swarthy man who seemed terrified by their regard but went on with encouragement. “Well I…a couple of us, we heard you need a gem of some sort, and I thought you should know that Dred—him over there with the skinny little moustache, right? He was a jeweler before this—not a master, like, but pretty good if you listen to him. I thought maybe you’d like to know, then.”

Aldred the former jeweler (“The end of days don’t do much for the jewelry market anyway so I thought I’d see to that first.”) was summoned and proved confident that he could do what was needed. If someone who knew what it looked like could carve a master, he would gather the sand and clay for a mold once morning came. No, he couldn’t do silverite, not without a proper kiln, but if anyone had a pewter tankard or a few spare buckles, that would take a nice enough shine to mimic the finer metal if no one looked too closely. Of course it wouldn’t be his _best_ work, not under such adverse circumstances. He’d picked up a lovely chunk of serpentstone himself earlier, if anyone wanted to pay him for it.

Unexpectedly, the Warden Blackwall offered his services with the carving, and sat by the fire working away at a bit of candle end as Cassandra and Iron Bull directed him. Samhal glared at it all over the edge of his tankard as he nursed his drink.

Cullen watched as Varric sat down next to him, resting Bianca between his knees.

“Chin up, Fox. We’ll get this straightened out in no time.”

“Will it make those scouts less dead?”

“Well, no. But it’ll make others down the line less dead, and you learn to settle for that.”

“Well I haven’t learned, yet, then, alright? I guess I’m too stupid, but when people get killed for no reason at all except that they believed I could save them, that’s bullshit and I hate it.”

“That’s what makes you not an asshole.”

Samhal snorted reluctantly. “Nahh I’m definitely an asshole.”

“Fair enough. But not a heartless asshole. Even if you’d rather be.”

“What can I say? It’s a work in progress.”

……………

As Cullen lay waiting for sleep that night, staring at the stars through gaps in the clouds and trying to avoid the stone that was finding every tender spot in his back, he thought about the Herald. He thought about how much they were pinning on this one man, how much weight he carried and how much they had gambled on him without even having properly met him. He thought about the stark truth of what he’d said to the Iron Bull—he hardly knew Samhal at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And another episode ends with someone going to sleep. What can I say, it's my trademark. Sorry this was a sort of in-between chapter with no major events, but we are getting around to some fun.
> 
> If Aldred the jocular jeweler seems more developed than strictly necessary for such a minor character, that's because it entertained me to make him a cameo of my actual jeweler friend who goes by the same name. I have spent more than a couple pleasant evenings lounging by the fire and watching as he and others cast bits and bobs out of a little crucible in the firepit.
> 
> I love hearing from you so please feel comfortable commenting!


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit of gore in this one, though no more graphic than what's gone before.

Come sunrise, Aldred the erstwhile jeweler proved competent as advertised, gathering and preparing supplies to cast the Crest of Mercy. There was a bit of complaint about the draft angle on the edges of Blackwall’s carved master that required corrections, and some fussing over not being able to find fine enough sand to suit. While the Chargers and Inquisition soldiers stretched and sparred and sniffed around each other like strange dogs, the pendant took form, first in the mold and then under the file. Cullen tended his gear with one eye on the fighters and one on the work at the fire pit. Samhal had rigged himself a haphazard hammock with a blanket, and was sprawled in it, legs spread and hands behind his head, watching the gem take shape in silence.

Cullen had intended to return to Haven once the Chargers had been met, either with or without them, but since there was another pass through the mountains a bit beyond where they believed the Blades of Hessarian to be, it made sense to travel that much further with the Herald and his companions. By midmorning, the bulk of the camp was packed and ready to go, and a hastily-shaped cabochon of serpentstone was being affixed in the center of the gleaming rays of the Crest of Mercy.

The size of the group and roughness of the terrain made the going slow, and at one point they had to circle far into the hills to avoid a battle between a giant and a high dragon. The Iron Bull advocated eagerly for a small group splitting off to get closer to watch the dragon, but Cullen forbade it. He was left nursing dire concerns about the Qunari’s common sense. 

They scrambled over treacherous scree slopes and rocks covered in lichens just waiting to slip off under an unwary boot. The basalt columns near the shore were awe-inspiring to look at, but exhausting to traverse, with every step a new decision, and deep crevices between to trap the unwary ankle. Samhal and Varric, accompanied by a back-and-forth patter of ever more inventive complaints about the weather, the ground, the landscape, the food, and life in general, had often to be helped where longer legs went more easily. 

By the time they rested for lunch it was already clear that they would not make it to the compound of the Blades of Hessarian that day. By late afternoon, the light was fleeing the deep valleys. Streaks of deep shadow made the footing precarious even before the chilling drizzle returned. Resigned, Cullen signaled a halt, and Cassandra immediately returned to join him, Samhal and Varric following more slowly. Samhal threw himself down on a boulder with a petulant flounce and pulled up a foot to massage the ankle.

“The light is failing us already. I have seen no flat ground for some time, and this rain is going to get heavier before it ends. What think we?” Cullen looked first to Cassandra for an answer.

“I believe I spotted a cave entrance perhaps a quarter-hour back. It might prove a suitable place to get out of the weather for the night.”

Cullen’s heart jumped a bit at Solas’ voice behind him. He had not heard the man approach.

“The elf wants me to sleep in a cave? You know, not all dwarves like caves.” Varric pulled a face, and Cullen silently thanked the dwarf for the objection—a cave did not appeal.

“Well _this_ elf is fine with a cave if it means not being wet all night. You secretly love being wet, Varric? Your fine dwarven seal pelt keep you warm?” Samhal kicked casually at Varric’s boot. Cassandra huffed, but Cullen knew she was going to agree. There was nowhere to set up the tents, and a chance at a dry night was not so easily dismissed.

The cave contained a small pack of deepstalkers—easily dealt with, but an indication that the cave must run deep. A watch rotation was set and a few torches put ‘round. Exhausted men and women quickly shed wet gear, made up damp bedrolls, and gave in to their fatigue. Between the Inquisition and the Chargers, the quarters were tight. Cullen set up his own bed at the outer fringe of the group, nearest to the cave entrance, and drifted to sleep with the chill damp of the shore against his face.

…………………

It was pitch dark outside the cave when Cullen was woken by a terrified bellow. He shot up, sword already in hand. He turned to run deeper into the cave, whence the sound had come, but everywhere he might step, there were bodies flailing as they roused from sleep. In the dim torchlight he could make out nothing clearer than a violent disturbance at the back of the cave. Someone screamed, and he intensified his efforts to shoulder through the confusion and chaos. 

An actinic flash of blue-white lightning illuminated the cave for a frozen second, highlighting half-clothed warriors running away, running towards, falling or still only half-up. Furthest away from where he stood he caught a horrible glimpse of a figure half-human, half nightmare, necrotic flesh clinging tightly to the bone.

In the aftermath of the lightning, he was almost entirely blind, white tracks seared across his vision. His heart thundered in his chest. Demons? Abominations?

“Darkspawn!” The Iron Bull’s roar carried over everything. “Keep your mouths closed and your swords up!”

One of the mages flung a fireball that clung to the lead darkspawn and illuminated the fight with a ruddy glow. The inhuman screeching was horrible, but the enemy was mortal, not demonic, and Cullen’s muscles began to work again with a painful lurch. He scanned the scene frantically—where was the Herald? Above all, they must protect Samhal.

He followed another gout of flame back to its source and found Samhal, off to one side but to the back of the cave, with almost no one between himself and the darkspawn. As fast as Cullen had followed the track of the flame, so did a huge darkspawn, nearly a head taller than the soldier who stood before it. The monster knocked the soldier aside with an almost contemptuous backhand and made a sound that might have been a horrible mockery of laughter. Cullen and the creature began to run at the same moment, but the creature was far closer to the Herald.

Samhal’s wide eyes reflected the fire, and he shouted something inaudible in the chaos of battle. His hands began to move, but no more fire bloomed, and at first Cullen, barreling through the fight, thought that the spell had misfired. But there was something strangely blurry about his hands, unless the dark was playing tricks on Cullen’s eyes. 

When the darkspawn was no more than a few long steps away, Samhal made a little motion of releasing. He began to scramble backwards as the monster’s great maul swung up, but it was bound to be too little, too late. Cullen roared to attract the creature’s attention, but as he watched, it stumbled and sagged, suddenly bowed beneath the weight of its own weapon. It slowed and shook its head angrily, and in that moment Samhal slipped out of range and Cullen crashed into the monster’s side.

The battle was over quickly after that. Despite the chaos, afterwards they counted only five darkspawn—but one dead soldier, and two badly injured. One would heal well with stitching and elfroot, granted that she did not fall to the Taint, but the other had an arm so badly mangled that nothing short of a spirit healer would ever see it work properly again. Cullen found himself thinking of the miracles the mage Anders had been reputed to perform, but that thought pulled a flood of dark memories behind it, and he pushed them down. 

Several soldiers told stories of blows they had thought would kill them, turned aside by magic at the last moment. Cullen could not help thinking that the fight would have gone much worse for them without the help of the mages. Another thought to examine more closely…later. Later.

He looked around at his wide-eyed, spooked soldiers—only time would tell if any of them had caught the Blight-sickness, and they were all thinking it. How could darkspawn be so close to the surface here? Why? Did it have anything to do with the disappearance of the Wardens? He sighed and kneaded the back of his neck, where he felt another headache building.

………………

Samhal’s thighs ached and he had a blister on his left heel from walking in wet boots, but he had business to take care of today, so he decided to put in some practice on the stoic hero act. They had left half the soldiers at the cave that morning, partly to care for the wounded and partly to construct a makeshift barrier to close off the cave until dwarven engineers could be obtained. Samhal’s suggestion that they just send a note to King Alistair and let Ferelden deal with its own shit was met with lowered eyebrows from Cullen and Cassandra.

“Right, sorry, I forgot I’m the grand fixer of all problems and mender of stubbed toes. Next time I talk to Andraste, remind me to tell her that she should’ve given me some actual fucking coin to work with.”

If their maps were correct, it wasn’t far to the Blades’ compound, so Samhal watched for his opportunity carefully, and when he saw it, put on a burst of speed to bring himself even with the Iron Bull. Even with his elbow, anyway. He glanced around to see who was close before he spoke.

“Soooo…I thought the deal was that we were at least going to pretend to be open and honest with each other?”

Bull looked down at Samhal with interest. “That was the general idea, yeah.”

“That’s great. So tell me, then, Qunari—how do you feel about mages?”

Iron Bull hesitated a moment. “I think they carry a burden. And if they carry it well and use their powers to contribute to society, well and good. You know the Qun has a pretty…specific attitude towards mages?”

“I do. Which is why I find it so interesting that you’re traveling with one—and I’d have noticed if they were leashed and muzzled.”

“Ah.”

“I’m guessing the Chargers haven’t fought alongside other mages before. Because it’s sort of hard not to notice when that was definitely a spell and you didn’t sling it. Solas was busy popping up barriers like he always does; I’m used to feeling him. That little farewell-to-night-vision wasn’t us.”

Iron Bull made a discontent rumbling noise in his throat. “Already had words with her about that, yeah. Not my secret to share, though.”

Samhal smiled a little, inwardly, but kept it off his face.

“So you’re not afraid she’ll steal any babies to sacrifice to her heathen gods or anything like that then?”

Iron Bull’s eyes flickered, and then narrowed as he looked down at Samhal. “Oh, you’re dangerous.”

Samhal let the smile out, sharp and pointed. “Shhhh, don’t tell anyone.”

After a considering moment, the Iron Bull grinned back.

“You know, Boss, I think working for you is gonna be fun.”

……………………

It was mid afternoon by the time Cullen and the others came over a slight rise and saw the fort of the Blades of Hessarian for the first time. Wooden palisades and a sturdy gate enclosed the compound, and a pair of guards stood at posts over the gate. The Chargers and Inquisition soldiers bunched up in the narrow valley bottom as the leaders stopped to contemplate the task ahead. Cullen looked to Samhal, expecting to see worry, perhaps fear, but what he found instead was cold anger.

Samhal held out a hand to Cassandra without looking away from the fort, gesturing impatiently. “Well, give me the magic password, then. Let’s see if it works still. I want an accounting for my soldiers.” 

Cassandra, silent, handed him the Crest of Mercy, and without any further hesitation he strode forward. Cullen followed, bemused.

Samhal stopped at the gate, holding up the pendant and twisting the chain so that it spun and glittered in the light.

“Tell your leader that the Herald of Andraste and the Inquisition are here to speak to him about their murdered soldiers,” Samhal called up.

There was something that might have been hope in the Blade’s eyes as she turned and disappeared behind the wall. A minute later, the gates began to creak open, and to Cullen’s dismay, Samhal was through them before they were wide enough for him to assess the situation inside the fortress. The others scrambled to follow.

“Are you the leader of the Hessarians,” Samhal’s voice demanded. Cullen cleared the door in time to see the man Samhal was addressing, standing with arms crossed in the center of the compound.

“I am that. And are you the one they’re calling the Herald, the knife-eared murderer of our beloved Most Holy?”

“Definitely not that second part, but I appreciate your _asking_ instead of jumping to totally unfounded conclusions based on gross prejudice, that’s nice. I am the one they’re calling the Herald, though, which means it’s my soldiers you killed. I’ll be honest, I’m pretty pissed about that. Is there anything you’d like to say, maybe something like a reason?”

Samhal’s squared shoulders and planted feet did nothing to disguise the way in which the leader of the Blades, barrel-chested and heavily armored, loomed over him. Cullen struggled with the feeling that Samhal should be safely _behind_ him and not yards away.

The mercenary captain laughed roughly. “If you want justice for your men, claim it yourself. Single combat.”

“Absolutely. Cassandra, if you will?”

Cassandra stepped forward immediately, hand on her sword.

“Your lackey? No. You wish to claim the favor of Our Lady? Show me. Surely Andraste can protect her Prophet, if you are that.” The way the man looked Samhal’s slight frame up and down made his opinion of the Herald’s chances clear enough. The sneer in the man’s voice set Cullen’s teeth on edge.

“Alright, asshole. You’re on.”

Cullen temporarily forgot to breathe. Cassandra’s barked, “What!” nearly covered Varric’s quiet, “shit”.

He stepped forward, sword half drawn. “I cannot allow it! Only a madman would expect us to risk the Herald for so little. I will fight—I, Cullen Rutherford, commander of the Inquisition’s forces. Surely I am a worthy representative?”

Samhal turned and favored them all with a repressive glare.

“Have you no _faith_ , then? You heard the man. If my claim is just, Andraste will protect me and _hinder my enemies_. I’ll win.”

_’Hinder my—‘_ Oh. Cullen thought of the strange lethargy that had overtaken the Hurlock he’d fought the night before. Still, he knew Samhal hated fighting. By all accounts, he fought from the back. This was an entirely new madness. But Samhal was right—the captain’s challenge had trapped them, and if they wished to reclaim the Blades without more bloodshed, Samhal would need to fight for himself. 

A space was cleared for the fight. The Inquisition party took the opportunity to confer hastily and in hushed voices.

Samhal spoke first. “Look, I’m not crazy, right? If it looks like I’m fucked, jump in with everything you have. But if I can kill one guy instead of twenty, I’ll take a chance. Besides, I don’t like this asshole.”

“Herald, I really must object!”

“I know you must, Boss Lady. I told you, have a little faith.”

“I don’t like it,” Cullen said. “You’re too important to risk on a handful of mercenaries.”

“So don’t. Just give me a minute first, I want to try something. Solas, you’re ready, right?”

Solas nodded calmly, and Samhal smiled—only a little strained—and nodded back. He ended the conversation by turning away.

“You ready, or have you grown a conscience,” Samhal taunted as he strutted into the cleared space. The last golden light of late afternoon slipped off the tips of the palisade and the mountain’s shadow filled the compound. The captain of the Blades swung his sword off his back and smiled the smile of the utterly confident.

“I am ready, little rabbit, to make you pay for your crimes.”

From the sidelines, the mercenary lieutenant shouted “Lay on,” and the captain surged forward. Samhal stood unmoving. In the cold shadow of the rocky valley, the black haze of his magic was only visible if you knew to look for it. Cullen saw it, but didn’t see how it could possibly suffice. He stepped forward, but was stopped by the surprising weight of a hand against his chest.

“Wait,” said Solas.

Had he glanced over at the elf or taken his eyes off the fight for a moment, he would have missed it. Would have missed the way the black motes snaked out and then seeped into the mercenary captain, the way the man slowed and then staggered when his feet unexpectedly failed to keep pace with his body’s momentum. Samhal danced out of the way of the sweeping blow that was suddenly slow and clumsy. He pivoted on his back foot until he was behind his opponent, and then brought his staff up and planted the blade on the man’s back.

A massive surge of magic tugged at something inside Cullen. Varric started to swear, and then the captain just…disintegrated. Forcefully.

When the stomach-churning sound of chunks of mercenary captain pattering onto the ground faded, Samhal was standing calmly in place, painted red. He looked around at the watching Blades, and in the moment he looked neither small nor comical, but regal and deadly.

“He lost because I am more than he believed me to be. Is it enough? Do you submit to my will? Will you leave my people alone?”

The lieutenant responded immediately, dropping to one knee. “Your Worship. The Blades of Hessarian are at your service.”

“Then get yourselves together and report to our camp in the morning. Cassandra, tell him where.”

Samhal was already in motion as he spoke. Cullen hurried to catch up with his purposeful stride as he marched out through the gate and around the first bend in the narrow valley. 

Then, suddenly and shockingly, Samhal’s composure shattered entirely. He collapsed on hands and knees, heaving and gagging.

“Get it off get it off oh Creators the stink get it off me it’s in my hair!”

Solas was by his side in an instant, Varric muttering “Yup, there it is” as he stumped past Cullen.

There was little enough in Samhal’s stomach to expel—light lunch was many hours behind them—but he heaved painfully anyway, body shaking like a leaf between spasms. 

“Is he injured?” Cullen hovered, uncertain what he should be doing.

“He’ll be fine,” Varric said, fishing out a handkerchief. Solas worked open the clasps on Samhal’s coat expertly and slipped it off, removing the worst of the gore.

“He has depleted himself magically as well as emotionally. It was to be expected. He will recover, but not tonight.” Solas absently stroked circles between Samhal’s shoulder blades as he spoke.

“It’s in my hair, please…” Samhal’s voice was a reedy whine. Varric sighed and unshouldered his water skin.

“Tip him back.” Solas complied, and Samhal cooperated limply so that Varric could pour water through his hair, carding his fingers through to tease the blood loose. Cassandra, joining them, quickly wet a cloth from her bag and handed it to Solas, who wiped Samhal’s face.

The massive Qunari warrior loomed up behind Cassandra, making Cullen tense reflexively.

“That was an impressive show. He do this often, then?” The Iron Bull’s waved hand took in the whole tableau and the tiny elf still shaking in the center as he frantically scoured his face with a rag. Blackwall stood a bit apart, looking slightly dazed.

“Not often, no,” responded Cassandra, “but it is not a first.”

“Huh.”

Bull’s grunt sparked a surprisingly sharp reaction from Varric.

“Our boy knows the value of a good show. He impressed the shit out of those mercs and used himself up keeping anyone else from getting hurt. He knew what he was doing.”

“No need to get defensive; I saw that just fine. The question is, will he be able to walk back to camp or is he gonna freeze to death here with his nice clean hair?”

Everyone turned to look down at Samhal, who now slumped weakly against Solas, peering up vaguely.

Cassandra sighed. “Someone should carry him.”

“I got it.” Iron Bull stepped forward, reaching out.

“No! No, I…I’ll get him.” Cullen closed the gap and then hesitated, unsure of Samhal’s reaction.

“Herald? Samhal? May I carry you back to camp?”

Samhal took a moment to focus on his face.

“Are you sure you…?”

“It’s all right. Come up.” 

Samhal smiled and reached up his arms like a little boy. Lifting him took hardly any effort. Up close, Cullen realized with a start that Samhal’s face was thinner than he remembered, the cheekbones starker.

“My knight in shining armor,” Samhal murmured, smirking. The smile fell quickly, though. “Sorry I stink.”

“Do you often find yourself in need of carrying?”

“Nahh, usually just need…a breather. Cassandra…carried me, once.” Samhal yawned hugely. “Wasn’t…as comfortable…as this.” He nuzzled into the fur of Cullen’s mantle and closed his eyes. Cullen spent a few minutes focusing on his footing before he realized that Samhal had fallen asleep.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important note: After literally months of debating with myself on this, I have removed the Dorian/Lavellan romance tag. My sincere apologies to anyone who was really looking forward to that/reading in hopes for that romance to work out. Without getting too spoilery, the more the plot and characters developed in my mind, the more a relationship between those two seemed doomed to be generally very unhappy, and I just...didn't want to write it. Their relationship is still complex, and dear to me, but I think I'll spare us all the worst of that angst.
> 
> That said, I hope you all enjoy the chapter.

Twelve days after the showdown with the Blades of Hessarian, Samhal found himself on a ship to Val Royeaux, somewhat dazed and still wondering why in the Void he had agreed to such a thing. 

When Josephine had declared it time to go to the city to sweet-talk the Chantry Mothers, there had been a great deal of yelling. Most of it hadn’t even been him—Cullen and Leliana had been adamantly against the idea, and he’d felt quite safe at first that the idea would be discarded. Josephine had never raised her voice, but one at a time she had set out her arguments until they formed an insurmountable wall. Watching Cullen’s spluttering frustration had been some compensation, though.

No, they could not continue as they had…they all knew that so far neither the mages nor the templars were willing to approach them—so long as the Chantry opposed them, they were a political liability that neither embattled side would willingly assume. No, they could not build grassroots support in Orlais as they had so far done in Ferelden. The people of Ferelden were free agents on their own land and their nobility answered to the people. In Orlais, even the freeholders were still at the mercy of the nobility, and any hope for social advancement lay in careful attention to The Game. No one would side with them there because they fed and sheltered peasants, and they could not end the Civil War or win over the Chantry by brute force. 

So long as the Chantry opposed them, hardly anyone in power could be openly for them, and they would remain crippled and ineffectual. Mother Giselle had given them a list of clerics who would be likely to listen with a sympathetic ear. Many of these had been contacted and would agree to meet with the Herald, but most were too timid to leave Val Royeaux to do so. Surely Cullen and Leliana understood that in battle, risk was necessary to secure victory? This was battle, and it was a battle Josephine knew. If they did not take allies where they might find them, they could not win.

Samhal had seen the tide turning against him, and had argued frantically that a Dalish accent and a tattooed face were not the tools with which to win Orlesian hearts. Surely the Right Hand of the Divine—human, Chantry, and noble combined—was a better candidate? But Cassandra’s mildly horrified protest was only half-formed when Josephine dismissed the idea. Yet again, only the Herald himself would do. At this point, she said, _any_ Herald that was not laughing madly, soaked in the blood of innocents, would be preferable to the stories that were being circulated. Samhal thought she underestimated the dangers of confirming that the “Herald” was a Dalish mage, but somehow arguments always slid around Josie.

The physical danger, Josephine said, was not so great as it might seem—without the templars the Chantry was toothless, and many if not most of the Chevaliers were away from the city, caught up in the war between Empress Celene and her cousin Gaspard de Chalons. It would be only appropriate for them to have an honor guard, of course, and with the Right Hand as his personal guard and Josephine de Montilyet as his ambassador, he would enter Val Royeaux not as a heretical savage but as a man of means and power, a true contender in The Game. Naturally, she had already secured permission from the Marquis d’Lussard for them to stay at his comfortably-appointed townhouse, and there would have to be shopping trips. Appropriately fine clothing needed to be made. 

Samhal recognized a bribe when he heard one. It worked anyway—barely.

So here he was, being pushed by a stiff tailwind towards the grandest city of the Orlesian Empire, to declare himself Herald of Andraste in the greatest House of the Maker. While he was fairly sure that the Maker would not strike him down for it, he was less confident of the Maker’s children. He was very good at charming his way into noble beds, but it would be an entirely new test of his charisma to charm his way into their religion.

The ship’s crew was not Inquisition. Their only loyalty was to the man who had been willing to take a stiff price to carry one of the most controversial passengers in Thedas. Samhal had felt an itch between his shoulder blades ever since he had boarded, and was having trouble enjoying the voyage as he might have done.

Unfortunately, the general feeling of hostility was no better in Val Royeaux. There was no mystery as to who they were—the guard were all wearing the best livery that could be found, and clearly word of the meaning of the eye and sword symbol had spread. The reaction was immediate. They stood on the docks awkwardly as soldiers ranged into further and further streets looking for a carter willing to take their business. The man they finally came back with was an elf, who stood by his splintery wagon and stared at Samhal with a wary awe as the soldiers loaded their baggage.

People moved out of the way as if avoiding disease carriers, whispering to each other. Sometimes they pitched their commentary to carry, snippets about bloodthirsty savages and filthy demon-bait echoing against stone buildings. Samhal’s jaw began to ache, and he forced himself to relax, instead entertaining himself by watching Cassandra, whose jaw might be aching too if she didn’t always look like that, and Josephine, wide-eyed and hot-cheeked. Varric stumped along, apparently unconcerned as always, but Samhal knew that in his head it was all the pages of a book, a comfortable step removed from reality. He caught himself wondering how quiet, proud Solas would have reacted, but Solas had stayed in Haven, to ‘catch up on some research’.

It was not far to the Marquis’ house, but before they reached it a group of armed and masked guardsmen stepped out of a side street to block their way.

“Stand wary, guardsmen! The _Inquisition_ is here, along with their ‘Herald of Andraste’.” It was difficult to tell which of them had spoken behind the masks, but there was no mistaking the tone of scorn. Samhal’s eyes moved from one expressionless metal face to another nervously.

“They say they found the knife-ear covered with the Divine’s blood.”

Cassandra stepped forward, partly between Samhal and the guardsmen. “Then they say falsely. I, Right Hand of the Divine, was there, and have proof that the Herald did not kill Most Holy.”

“Is that what you say, then? No matter. The Inquisition is the templars’ problem. And they’ll fix it. Come, men, Val Royeaux has no time for heresy.” 

The last guardsman watched them a moment longer than the rest, and made a crude gesture before turning away. Those left behind stood frozen for a moment longer before Josephine took a shaky breath and moved forward.

“Come, we are almost to our destination. I, for one, will be glad to refresh myself and rest.”

No one relaxed until troops, cart, and all were behind the stout gate and high walls of the Marquis d’Lussard’s townhome.

“I am so sorry, Master Lavellan. I underestimated the venom with which you would be treated.”

“What? An elf, thinking he could ever raise himself above _real_ men? A _mage_? They’re hardly better than demons to begin with. No, this is about what I expected.”

“I had thought…at least some would welcome…” Josephine trailed off with a sigh.

Varric spoke to fill the awkward silence. “But what did he mean, the templars would take care of it?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I was promised a proper tub and a good bed, and if nothing else good comes of this idiotic trip, I’ll have those.”

“Yes, of course.” Josephine nodded to the Marquis’ housekeeper, who bobbed a curtsey to her and then to Samhal before leading him back to the bathing chamber. He scrubbed off the sea salt and hatred until his skin tingled, and then shut himself in his room for the night.

………………

He would have known that the jaunty, syncopated knocking on his bedroom door was Varric even without the dwarf’s voice booming through the wood.

“Enough beauty sleep, Fox! Rise and shine! Got something to tell you that you might not mind hearing. Tea, too.”

The promise of tea was just barely enough to pull Samhal out from under the down comforter, but really only because a robe had been laid out for him the night before. Shrugging into it, he moved to open the door, and Varric slipped in, raising an eyebrow expressively.

“Well you got the posh room, anyhow. No velvet drapes for me.”

“Yes, it’s a nice trade for being public enemy number one. Aren’t you rich anyway, you professional faker?” Samhal grabbed the tea tray out of Varric’s hands.

“On paper? Never.” Varric grinned and joined Samhal at the tea table.

“So what could you possibly tell me this morning that isn’t shitty? I’m all agog, really.”

“Weelll, I had a little chat with Ruffles and Seeker—the things I do for you, really—and we figured we could all agree that this whole thing is pretty shit for you, and you were promised some shopping. Nobody’s going to sell to us as the Inquisition, that’s clear enough. But I have…friends…in the city, who run a little sideline for this sort of problem. They keep a stock of masks—real masks, mind, just from minor families, families who don’t make it to Val Royeaux much and wouldn’t automatically be recognized.

Assuming you go for it, today the Lady Baudin is taking in the sights, accompanied by her overprotective bodyguard who…refuses to stay here, her friend from the Merchant’s Guild, and her elven serving boy. And yes, we have a mask for you—full-face.”

“Why? What…what’s the angle? Why would you all do this?”

“Because we’re your friends, you surly jackass. Now, are you ready to go eat some excessively elaborate baked goods and snails in garlic sauce?”

Samhal turned the idea over in his head, studying it silently.

“Ahhh…do they have Rivaini restaurants here? I’d rather Rivaini.”

……………………

And so they had the sort of day that a young Little Fox had once dreamed of, though his younger self would probably not have included the part where nothing but a mask stood between him and an angry mob.

Samhal was hardly new to city life—he had spent years walking sett-lined streets, working in walled gardens overlooked by the Lord Chancellor’s palace, and becoming as accustomed to the sights, sounds, and smells of Tantervale as he had once been to halla-milk and aravels. Still, Val Royeaux was the jewel of southern Thedas, with, perhaps, more gilt marble, more carefully sculpted shrubbery, and certainly more rank hypocrisy than any other city outside of Tevinter. He was a little awed despite himself.

They did have Rivaini restaurants—and in Val Royeaux, private tables were de rigueur for those who wished to actually _eat_ their food without baring their faces to the masses. Samhal cheerfully doubled his usual rate of consumption downing stuffed grape leaves, marinated meats, and desserts that tasted of honey and rosewater. They shopped for triple-milled soaps and exotically perfumed skin oils and, once, a cosmetic that left a fine shimmer of gold dust on the skin of the user. Every time it seemed they would finally actually hear Cassandra’s teeth grit, Josephine would comment blithely on the virtues of a good presentation, especially if people expected you to be unpleasant and barbaric.

At one point, Varric disappeared into the back room with a shopkeeper. Later, as they walked down a sculpture-lined avenue, he slipped Samhal a long, slim package. When Samhal peeked inside, a slender silverite blade with a rune in the hilt gleamed back at him.

“Wouldn’t hurt you to learn a thing or two about using daggers, you know. You’ve got the coordination, if you’re interested. Always good to have one more trick up your sleeve than they’re expecting.”

The crowning touch—and this was _pure_ frivolity and yet for some reason Cassandra made no objection—was a private box from which to watch _The Heir of Verchiel_. Samhal could have sworn that more than once he heard a delicate sniff from Cassandra’s direction, and Josephine wept openly at the dénouement. Samhal thought it was all terribly melodramatic, but the actor playing the Duke Le Seuille did a remarkable job with his lines.

Given the roles they were playing, Samhal found himself falling behind under his own pile of neatly-wrapped packages on the way home. He had dire suspicions about the amused crinkles around Cassandra’s eyes, but she did agree to a stop in a small garden along their route. The gardens, at this time of year, were a study in grey and brown—the elegant bones of the neatly-trimmed bushes and trees, the occasional muted green of some hardier foliage, the crisp white lines of the now-dry fountain.

While Josephine and Cassandra discussed the play in excited undertones, Samhal and Varric found themselves watching the little drama unfolding on the bench across the neat pea-gravel path. A man and woman were deep in conversation—scraps of incomprehensible Orlesian crossed the path, but Samhal didn’t need to understand the words to understand the conversation. The man was turned towards the woman, leaning forward—the woman sat stiffly, hands raised between them making small fluttering motions. Her mask revealed the lower half of her face, frozen in an unconvincing smile. Every so often, the man would slide towards, and she would slide away. Soon she was going to run out of bench.

Samhal elbowed Varric and indicated the couple with a jerk of his head. Varric made a moue of distaste and shrugged. Samhal wriggled his fingers in front of his chest and grinned meaningfully, but Varric only looked confused. Right. Damn masks—what was wrong with this country anyway?

“What do you think? Time for a little creepy?”

Varric squinted in bemusement, and then a look of recognition swept his face. He grinned tightly.

“Sure, why not? He already is.”

Samhal cautiously gathered a tiny wisp of magic, shadow congealing around his hand. Just for show, he blew the spell across the path as though it were a kiss.

A moment later, the ‘gentleman’ in question stiffened abruptly. He fought it for a moment before leaping up with a garbled farewell and dashing off—as quickly as he could in his condition, at any rate. 

Varric burst out laughing. The lady, thus abandoned, stared between her hastily-departed paramour and the laughing dwarf for a minute. Then she retrieved her gloves from the bench, stood, brushed out her skirts, and left, smiling slightly.

Samhal felt eyes on him, and turned to face Cassandra’s suspicious glare.

“What? What did _I_ do?”

………………

The bubble burst on Samhal’s golden afternoon as soon as they returned to the townhouse. A scout was pacing nervously in the foyer.

“My lord Herald.” The scout stopped, as if unsure how to proceed.

Cassandra prompted her. “You’re one of Leliana’s people. What have you found?”

“The Chantry Mothers—they’ve gathered to make some sort of announcement. They call for the Herald, and are waiting for you. But…so are a great many templars.”

“There are templars here?” Cassandra asked. 

“People seem to think the templars will protect them from…from the Inquisition. They’re gathering on the other side of the market. I think that’s where the templars intend to meet you.”

“Only one thing to do, then.” Cassandra spoke with cold determination. “Return to Haven, scout. Someone will need to inform them if we are…delayed.”

The scout sketched a quick bow and darted out the back towards the stables.

Everyone looked to Samhal, who stood by the door with his fingers curled around his mask. The tendons strained along the backs of his hands.

“Templars? But I thought…you said…no. No, we can see them later. We can…I don’t want…I can’t.”

Josephine’s gentle eyes were full of worry as she spoke. “I am so sorry, Master Lavellan. They know we are in the city. All eyes are on our next action—we must appear confident and unafraid. We must go to meet them.”

“Well what if I can’t appear confident and unafraid? What if I want to throw up?”

“Then throw up after, as you have before! Surely this is far less frightening than facing a man in single combat? I do not understand.” Cassandra’s impatience scratched along raw nerves. 

“You don’t know. You don’t know what it’s like. You don’t know what you’re asking.” He realized that he’d backed up until he was pressing himself into the corner, the plaster cold against his back. “I’d rather face that asshole a million times than templars. They take…they take _me_ away from me. Please don’t ask, I can’t, I can’t.”

“Ladies, can you uh…can you give us a moment,” said Varric.

Josephine nodded her understanding and left. Cassandra eyed both men doubtfully before following her.

“Right, so this is normally when Chuckles does whatever he does and calms you down. I don’t really know how to do that, so you need to help me out.”

“It’s getting worse, Varric. I’m getting worse. Nothing’s even happened yet! I didn’t…I wasn’t afraid of templars before, I didn’t care, the things I did…I didn’t care…but now I can’t…I can’t…”

“I don’t think you’re getting worse. I think you’re getting smarter. You know now. Sometimes knowing is terrifying. I know that. But sometimes…hey. Hey, I don’t know what Chuckles does but I know that’s not how you’re supposed to breathe.”

“I am fucking aware of that!”

“Okay, uh…sometimes he…pets you? Do you want me to, uh, rub your back or something?” Samhal jerked his head in negation. “Got it. Sure. That’s a Chuckles thing. Not my style anyway. Ale? Tea! Yes. We got that spicy tea you wanted.” He pitched his voice to carry back towards the servant quarters. “Hey, get us a tea kettle here!” And then, more quietly, “Come on, let’s sit down. Let’s have a nice sit-down in the solar like old ladies and think about tea and how nice the tea’s going to be and how much fun we had picking out tea. It was fun, right? You have a good nose, Fox. I couldn’t tell the difference after the first five sniffs. Andraste’s tits, I never knew there were that many kinds of tea in the world.”

Varric rambled about first tea and then publishing woes, something about some hack trying to make money on his name. He didn’t ask Samhal to talk. The tea was made, and then heavily sweetened. Samhal took his cup and let the heat seep into his hands. He held it up to his nose and let cinnamon and vanilla and just a touch of clove soothe him. He listened to the stream of words about things that were far away and blissfully un-worldchanging and let it fill up the spaces and slowly push the terror far enough away to give him room to think.

“Better, Fox?”

“A little. Void, I hate…being afraid.”

“So, uh…the thing?”

Samhal drank the last of his tea, tepid now and a bit gritty.

“Let me go change. Tell the others to get ready.”

“No problem. No gold powder today though, okay? I know you’re itching to try it.”

“Yeah, I know. Wrong kind of party. Well, if…if…” He stopped and swallowed. “See you in a few.”

He’d wanted to say, “If I die today, use the whole damned tin on me for the funeral, because it’s mine and I’ve earned it.” It sounded like something the Champion might have said. But he couldn’t summon the proper detachment. He couldn’t say it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The guardsmen's lines are remixed from actual ambient dialogue in Val Royeaux prior to talking to the Chantry Mothers. Ecchhh.


	29. Chapter 29

Samhal never remembered much of the walk to the market square, save that it was much too short. He knew he ought to feel grand, with the Inquisition symbol on his chest and his honor guard around him, but in the moment they only made him feel painfully obvious. A handful of scouts in street clothes ranged before and behind them, listening invisibly to the chatter, watching for any nasty surprises. Shop doors closed and awnings swung shut as they passed. The city watched them from behind blank eyes, guarded. The light began to fade, and a damp chill sank into his bones.

Josephine walked beside him, and he tried to focus on her tense murmur of last-minute advice and reminders. They had, of course, spoken quite a lot about what to say, what to do, how best to present themselves. That had been when they anticipated a private meeting with the Mothers, but in a way, nothing was changed now save that he was playing to multiple audiences. Anyone who was anyone in Val Royeaux would know what had been said by dark, and if the Chantry proved intractable, they might still gain ground in the Game. 

Their line was simple: Loyal to the legacy of Divine Justinia, who—he was to emphasize this point—had been the heart behind the formation of the Inquisition. Humble and awed in the face of the great responsibility placed on his shoulders. Resolute in his duty to seal the rifts and the Breach.

He was, _naturally_ , a loyal Andrastian, having left behind the ways of the Dalish for the peace of the Lady. Samhal was perfectly comfortable pretending to a piety he did not feel—he’d been doing so for years. He even had significant passages of the Chant memorized for the occasional client or busybody who had wanted proof that they weren’t associating with a godless heretic. People always thought that if you would just once listen to their bad poetry, the truth of it would be so compelling that you would have to believe. Cassandra, knowing as she did his true opinion, clearly found the whole thing distasteful, but yielded to Josie and the greater good. Samhal suspected that she, too, privately hoped observance would lead him to faith. The thought gave him a sliver of cold amusement to hold to.

The mage thing was more difficult. Samhal had thought that “the templars were out of control and I didn’t believe they served Andraste’s will” sounded fine when he’d pictured himself saying it to a bunch of old women in stupid hats. Now that he would be saying it _to templars_ he mostly just hoped against hope that the subject wouldn’t come up at all.

The most important part of the message was that the split with the Chantry was entirely of the Chantry’s making, and that they intended no challenge to the Chantry. They wanted to seal the rifts—all the rifts. That was the touchstone—always bring it back to that. He could seal the rifts, he wanted to seal the rifts, and he wanted only to be supported in his effort to seal the rifts and close the Breach.

The market was packed with people by the time they got there. As they entered the square, the crowd flowed away from them as if repelled. Shuttered, scornful faces and cold, blank masks rotated to watch him as he passed. He saw the templars first--half a dozen of them on and around an elevated platform, standing at attention, hands on their swords. It was several seconds before he could pull away his focus to take stock of the clerics sharing the platform. He felt his chest tighten convulsively, and tried to do as Solas had taught him—acknowledge the fear, acknowledge it and then continue to act. Varric’s dagger was shoved into his boot, the pommel digging into his calf, but it did give him a breath of comfort. If he got through today, he’d have a proper scabbard made and learn how to use the thing.

The people on the platform had seen them, now. One of the Revered Mothers stepped forward and began to speak, her voice commanding an expectant hush.

“Good people of Val Royeaux, hear me! Together we mourn our Divine, her naive and beautiful heart silenced by treachery! You wonder what will become of her murderer. Well, wonder no more! Behold the so-called Herald of Andraste! Claiming to rise where our beloved fell. We say this is a false prophet! The Maker would send no elf in our hour of need!”

“I did _not_ murder the Divine! That is a baseless accusation! I do not oppose the Chantry! We are only trying to close the hole in the sky!”

Cassandra added her voice to his. “It’s true! The Inquisition seeks only to end this madness before it is too late!” She strode past him to stand directly in front of the platform, as if she could plead their case with sheer force of dedication.

Before she could continue, there was a clatter of steel-shod boots from a side street, and the crowd flowed back before a large group of templars. Every muscle in Samhal’s body vibrated with tension, and he shrank in on himself, as if he could become small enough to go unnoticed. Just behind him, he heard a quiet, “Steady, Fox.”

The Chantry’s spokeswoman clearly tasted victory. “It is already too late! The templars have returned to the Chantry! They will face this ‘Inquisition’, and the people will be safe once more.” 

The leader of the templars, a puffy, sallow-faced man, stalked onto the platform and past the Revered Mother without so much as a glance her way, but the man behind him stepped in and clipped the mother hard on the back of the head. The woman went down like a sack of potatoes amid horrified gasps. Samhal jerked at the display of violence, bracing for what might come next, but the leader of the templars had not yet even looked his way.

One of the templars who had been there since the beginning stepped forward, visibly distressed, but the leader put a restraining hand on his chest.

“Still yourself! She is beneath us.”

Samhal waited, heart pounding, to see what would happen next—were the templars here to attack? To attack the Chantry? Why?

At last, the man who had spoken turned to look at him. His gaze held all the cold disinterest of a wyvern deciding whether it was hungry or not.

“So this is their ‘Herald of Andraste’?” He stared at Samhal for a moment, then turned away again, dismissing him as insignificant.

Cassandra hastened after the man, calling out as she moved. “Lord Seeker Lucius, it’s imperative that we speak with–“ 

“You will not address me.” Lucius cut her off harshly, his voice markedly more heated than before.

“Lord Seeker?” Cassandra sounded bewildered. Samhal’s eyes flickered between the two. 

The Lord Seeker continued as if Cassandra had not spoken, his tone contemptuous. “Creating a heretical movement, raising up a puppet as Andraste’s prophet. You should be ashamed. You should all be ashamed! The templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages! You are the ones who have failed! You who’d leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear! If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. The only destiny here that demands respect is _mine_.”

What in the Void was the man playing at? The situation made no sense, and Samhal had lost what little control of things he might have had. He had to do something, to turn things back towards him, or this was all for nothing.

He opened his mouth and words tumbled out faster than he could stop them. “You dare put yourself above the Chantry and then call _us_ heretics? How can you claim respect if you are not protecting the people and trying to seal the Breach? What respect are you due outside of those things?” 

“The people do not deserve us. The Chantry does not deserve us.”

“Then what do you intend to do?”

The Lord Seeker’s laugh was chilling. “As if you could matter to my plans. I came to see what frightens old women so, and to laugh. I will make the templar Order a power that stands alone against the Void. We deserve recognition. Independence! You have shown me nothing, robe-trash, and the Inquisition…less than nothing. Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection! We march!”

Suiting actions to words, the Lord Seeker turned on his heel and marched back the way he had come, and the rest of the templars fell into step behind him.

In the wake of the templars’ shocking advent and equally shocking departure, the crowd stood stunned and directionless. On the platform, one cleric knelt with the Reverend Mother’s head in her lap, while the other stared, hollow-eyed after the retreating backs of the templars. No one moved, or seemed to know what to do.

Samhal held a long breath, let it out, and took stock of how he felt. And realized that how he felt was…giddy. Yes, giddy, and a bit wild. He’s _survived_ , and he’d count that as a win. He’d faced the leader of the templars and he’d _insulted_ him and he’d survived. He was alive. He was whole. What was more, his opponents had both imploded spectacularly, leaving him standing in the void they’d left behind. He felt _immortal_ , burning with the desire to do something.

He glanced around the murmuring, frightened crowd, and his eyes caught on a hard, familiar face. Yes, there was something he could do right now. Two somethings, actually, but first things first.

“Charter!” The elven scout looked surprised to hear herself summoned, but came quickly.

“Your Worship?”

“I want you to follow the templars. Can you do that?”

“Of course.”

“Grab any of the other scouts you think will be useful and go. Stay well back, don’t let them see you, but follow as long as you need to to find out what they’re up to. Sorry, right, I’m telling you your job, I know. Here, I’ve got some coin on me, just a second.” He slipped his coin purse out of his pouch and tossed it to her. The pouch disappeared from sight nearly as soon as she’d caught it, and with a single quick nod she was gone into the crowd. 

Samhal flashed a wild grin to Cassandra and Josephine and turned to bound up the steps onto the platform.

“Good people of Val Royeaux!” Now would be a great time to know a voice amplification spell—he’d have to learn one. That’d be some impressive shit, right? Teeny guy, booming voice. “Your attention please, good people of Val Royeaux!” He stood there with both hands spread, giving everyone a moment to reorient their attention.

“You are frightened, and with good cause. But please, don’t be frightened of me. As I told the Revered Mothers, I want nothing more than to close the rifts, stop the demons, and seal the Breach. I intend no heresy. I mourn Most Holy with the rest of you—I swear I had no part in her death. It was the will and the writ of Divine Justinia that birthed the Inquisition which I serve. We do not stand in opposition to the Chantry, though some in the Chantry have opposed and slandered us.

You are angry, because the templars have abandoned you again. Be angry with them, yes! But not because they have not punished me for crimes I did not commit, but because they have turned from their sacred duty. Demons are falling from the sky! Why do templars exist if not to protect us from demons? Not all of the templars have abandoned you—some serve with the Inquisition! I hope that more will see the light and join us after today.”

Oh, he was on a roll now. He glanced down at Josephine and Cassandra and resisted the ridiculous urge to wink at them.

“But I have fought the demons, and I will continue to do so. I have been burdened with the power to close the rifts when no one else can, and I will do so. I do not know why I was chosen when so many good men and women died, but I will strive to make myself worthy.” Ohhh, oh this was the perfect time to stick in some Chant. He shuffled through his mind hastily and grabbed at a line. “Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me.” Yes, well, that could be interpreted as a bit aggressive, but hopefully people would decide he meant the demons. He hadn’t really planned that part in advance.

Should he show the Mark? They had debated it. Would a display of magic frighten the crowd, or would it reinforce his image? Well, why not? He was floating now. Without their precious templars to hide behind what would they do? He reached down and opened the Mark with his mind, just a little, and a jagged crack of green light opened in his hand. It still hurt, but he didn’t care. He cared about the awe in the faces around him, and the fear. Never had he performed for so large an audience, and they certainly hadn’t been looking at him like _that_.

“Though the templars have turned from their duty, the Inquisition will not! I won’t let people die if I can do something about it. Help us, or get out of our way. We will close the Breach.”

Samhal lowered the hand, releasing the magic of the Mark and with it his audience. He turned and walked down the steps and off the platform. He felt like he was floating. The strangest part was that, if he thought about it...well, he’d meant it, hadn’t he? Oh, sure, he didn’t give a shit about “Most Holy” this and “sacred duty” that, but he _was_ the one with the Mark and he _would_ close the Breach if that was what had to happen.

Cassandra rushed to his side as he reached the bottom of the stairs. Josephine followed, eyes glowing.

“I believe we can expect to be contacted by a great many of the wiser players of the Game in the days to come, Herald.”

Cassandra looked less excited. “Perhaps, but that was all very strange. Has Lord Seeker Lucius gone mad?”

“I take it you knew him?”

“He took over the Seekers of Truth two years ago, after Lord Seeker Lambert’s death. He was always a decent man, never given to ambition and grandstanding. This is very bizarre.”

“Well, I sent Charter after them. This isn’t the first really weird shit we’ve heard about the templars, and I don’t want Lord Seeker Stuffed-Cod’s glorious destiny to come back to bite us in the ass. But for now, can we go back to the townhouse before I realize what I just did?”

Josephine and Cassandra requested a moment to speak with the Revered Mothers, but Josephine agreed that now it was time to retire and give people a little time to chew on the evening’s events.

They were two intersections away from the market when an arrow thwacked into a window frame just ahead of them. Samhal yelped in terror and, seconds later, found himself in the dark at the bottom of a haphazard pile of bodies and shields. Everyone teetered there awkwardly, Samhal crushed by a heavy hand on his shoulder, until Cassandra’s exasperated voice called out.

“There is a message attached. But what--this is absurd. Let him up, I do not believe the Herald is in danger.”

Samhal brushed himself off rather tremulously, and took the scrap of paper from Cassandra’s unresisting hand.

“I can bring everyone? What on--Red Jenny! Oh!” 

“Who is this Red Jenny, then?”

“Not who, what. Sort of. Oh, this is great, actually. The Red Jennies! A couple of the girls were involved--back in Tantervale, I mean. Whores are perfect because we hear everything. Oh it’s...fuck, how to explain? You hear a thing that might be useful, you pass it on to the right people, they pass it on to someone else. Not like spies, really. More like...people gossiping, but with a point. Oh, I’m too high, I can’t explain.”

“And what is this nonsense about searching for red things? Are they toying with us? Do they think to gain something by wasting our time?”

“No, no, this is…this is how they work. If any one person’s only done a little thing, it spreads the risk. You don’t need to know what the others did, and you can’t tell what you don’t know. I told you...everyone knows a little bit, does a little thing. But then when you put all the little things together, one day some lord who thinks it’s fun to hit girls finds that his vault is empty and he can’t afford them any more. But this...they’ve heard someone say he’s after me. Which is hardly a surprise. But they’re offering to lead us to him before he’s ready to take us on.”

“Then these Red Jennies are criminals?” Cassandra’s eyebrows made a neat vee of disapproval.

Samhal laughed. “Oh, sure. Yes. But so’s the blueblood hitting girls. Try bringing him to court. Frowning at criminals is great fun for people the law actually protects. Would you like to focus on that some more, or should we talk about the actual current danger?”

Josephine, hair still slightly askew from being dogpiled after the arrow flew, put in, “I don’t feel it would send the right message at this point to have the Herald running around the market on a treasure hunt. Also, it will be dark soon, and we could not guarantee your safety.”

Samhal pulled an extremely sarcastic face at that.

“It seems as though this is a risk perhaps better taken by someone else, this time.” Josephine clasped her hands at her waist as if she knew no one would argue.

Varric sighed. “Seeker and I can get this. Wandering around cities at night looking for trouble is a personal specialty. Just loan me a couple of your guards in case our mysterious friend brought heavies. Go back to the house; I’m sure your new fans will start showing up any time now.”

…………………...

Indeed, Samhal had hardly finished dinner when people began to arrive at their door. The adrenaline was running out, and he was exhausted, but the day was not over. 

Some were simple men and women--merchants, craftsmen, laborers, disproportionately elves--hoping to join the Inquisition, and Samhal, following some impulse he didn’t quite understand, greeted each of these personally before sending them ‘round back to make arrangements with the captain of his guard. The faces of the elves in particular tore at him--wondering, wary, cautiously deferential. Familiar, save that this time he was on the other side, and wasn’t that strange and uncomfortable?

Some, masked and perfumed, brought carefully-worded and elaborately hedged offers and invitations written on fine paper. By far the most interesting of these, Samhal thought, was written in an elegant script and sealed with the crest of the Circle of Magi. Josephine was busy composing yet another response, so he took the message from the hand of the maid himself. He examined the seal with interest, wondering who in Thedas would use such a symbol now, with the Circles empty and the mages in open revolt.

“Josephine?” 

Josephine glanced up at the hushed excitement in his voice. “Yes, Master Lavellan?”

“The Circle at Montsimmard is empty, right? I thought all the Circles were?”

“I could not say for sure. There have been rumors that some smaller Circles in the northern countries may retain some loyalists. I believe all the Circles in the south abandoned, but news is much confused by the civil war.”

“Then why do I have here an invitation from one Vivienne de Fer, First Enchanter of Montsimmard, to attend her salon tomorrow?”

“Her Imperial Majesty’s court enchanter! Allow me!” Josephine reached for the message, and Samhal handed it over. It was brief and to the point. It read only, 

“You are cordially invited to attend my salon held at the chateau of Duke Bastien de Ghislain. Yours, Vivienne de Fer, First Enchanter of Montsimmard, Enchanter to the Imperial Court.”

 

Below were written the date and time of the salon--early the next evening.

“Josephine. Josie. Josie. Do you think she might have mages with her? What if she has mages?”

“I...am sure I do not know. We should, of course, attend. It would be an excellent opportunity to gauge the new atmosphere after today’s events. I could not guess whether Madame de Fer is sheltering any mages besides herself. It would seem to be a significant political risk on her part, which does not fit what I have heard of the woman. I...Master Lavellan, I would not hope too much of this meeting.”

“Toooo late! I mean, she’s a First Enchanter, right? Surely she knows more, and even if not, surely she would be a bargaining chip to get the mages on our side. Think of it, Josie! We’ve already got Solas and Liesl and her--what, six?--the rebels from the Hinterlands. Solas was really vague about how many we needed anyway. Always assuming she doesn’t just want to fry me for a heretic, if she’s got just a few mages...just a few…” He trailed off, lost in his unaccustomed flush of optimism.

……………….

He’d retired to his room at last and was cleaning his face and looking forward to bed when Varric and Cassandra finally returned. He heard the clatter in the foyer, and then Varric’s unmistakable gait on the stairs, and so the knock came as no surprise.

The figure behind Varric in the hall, however, was unexpected. Samhal considered her as she considered him. Tall for an elf--taller than him--blonde and freckled, with choppy bangs, uneven hair, patched and ragged clothing, but there was nothing in her carriage or expression of frank appraisal that matched her tattered appearance. She looked young--he guessed no more than twenty or so.

Varric nudged Samhal aside and pushed into the room. “There was a mage.”

“Oh? Did you recruit them?”

“He was shooting fireballs at me at the time, so no.”

“Damn.”

“What, you wanted that magey ponce? What for?” The newcomer trailed Varric into the room, looking around at the rich appointments.

“Well I wouldn’t know, now, would I? But most people are more useful alive than dead.”

“Pff...not this one.” The newcomer, apparently settled on a spot, perched on a chest at the foot of the bed, knees drawn up.

“Fox, this uh...this is Sera. The Red Jenny who tipped us.”

“Oh! Oh, well, good to meet you and thank you!”

“Right, that’s more like it! You’re little, aren’t you? And...elfy, with your elfy face doodles and all.”

“Thanks?”

“I mean it’s all good, innit? The important thing is, you glow? You’re the Herald thingy?”

It was, to say the least, a change of pace after all the flowery letters. He felt a smile growing.

“I am the Herald thingy, yes. I only glow sometimes. Do you want to see?”

Sera grimaced. “No thank _you_. Too big to lie about, so it has to be true. Doesn’t matter. I’d like to join.”

“Join the Inquisition? As Sera, though, or as a Red Jenny?”

“Both? It’s just names, yeah? But I can bring everyone. All the little people. See here, I just want to get everything back to normal. That’s what you’re in for, right?”

The smile broke through in full force. “Varric, is it just me, or is this the first sensible person we’ve talked to all day?”

“I don’t know, I thought that Bonny Sims seemed alright.” But Varric was smiling, too.

“What, in that outfit? Orlesian fashion is a disease.” Samhal’s comment earned a burst of laughter from Sera.

“So’s that mean I’m in?”

“Of course. We already owe you one, don’t we?” He didn’t point out that so far their criteria for recruitment was basically ‘would rather the Herald stayed alive than not’.

“Yes! Get in good before you’re too big to like. That’ll keep your breeches where they should be. Because breeches, eh? Eh?” Sera jerked an elbow expectantly at Varric.

“There’s a hole in my favorite coat that thinks swords would’ve been a lot _funnier_ than breeches.”

Samhal looked between them. “What?”

“Smarty-Pants doesn’t know a good joke when it’s dangling in his face. Get it? Because bits, and he’s short?” Sera went off into a gale of laughter that Varric did not share in. Stopping with a final snort, she bounced lightly off the chest. “Anyway, it’s a night, innit? See you in a bit, Herald. This will be grand!”

…………………..

 

Once Varric and their newest recruit had gone, Samhal sank into the down mattress and let the firelit dark and down duvet lull him into something approaching a moment’s happiness. He felt more optimistic than he had in…well. A long, long time, anyway. _The end was in sight._ Well, almost, at least. They had messages from half a dozen Orlesian noble families, and a lay sister had come to say that several of the Revered Mothers wanted to speak to him, if he was still willing. They had the Red Jennies, and who knew what that might yield. Tomorrow he would be meeting the First Enchanter of Montsimmard, and surely she would have mages. All they needed was more mages. Solas had been foggy as to how _many_ mages, exactly, they would need to attempt to close the Breach, but they had already collected a handful. If this Vivienne de Fer could provide only a few more, maybe the Breach could be closed as soon as they got back to Haven! 

He would get the mages. He would go back to Haven. He would sleep for a day, and he would demand that Solas reward him for being a good boy, preferably all night. And then he would seal the Breach. Who knew—maybe sealing the Breach would even seal the smaller rifts as well, and he would be done and clear and free to disappear into legend. Maybe Rivain, or Antiva. Somewhere nobody’d heard of him.

For the first time since he woke up in shackles, he thought that maybe, just maybe, he could make it through alive after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are various bits of in-game dialogue. Most of what Mother Hevara and Lord Seeker Lucius said is altered only slightly. I really don't think they were there to listen. :P
> 
> I had fun with this one, and would be delighted to hear from you.


	30. Chapter 30

Samhal spent the next morning sipping tea and fencing with a never-ending list of Orlesians in various flavors of conniving and self-important and, more rarely, genuinely concerned for the plight of Thedas. It wasn’t difficult, really--all he had to do was follow Josie’s skillful cues and back up her plays as smoothly as he could--but it chafed terribly when he had much more important things to do. Here they were playing little games for money, small favors, a word in the right ear, petty concessions--and hours away was the prospect of what they really needed--mages to seal the Breach.

It grated, too, that he understood so little of what he was going into, and he knew that it was his own fault this time. He could have asked the rebel mages he’d recruited about the Circle system. He could have asked Solas, who always seemed to know everything, or even, if he’d dared, Cullen. He had not. Curiosity in his old life would have invited suspicion--curiosity now might suggest a dangerous kinship he did not feel.

Circles were separate from the rest of society and shrouded in propaganda. He had not wanted to study magic, had not trusted to anyone’s ‘protection’, and so he had rejected them out of hand. The templars were the only visible branch of the system, and he needed to know only enough about them to avoid them. The war was a human problem, and if elves were caught up in it, well, that was nothing new. It wasn’t his job to fix it. His job--the _only _job he had agreed to--was sealing the Breach.__

__Now, though, his wilful ignorance was a hazard. He was about to meet a First Enchanter, and he didn’t even know what that meant. Standard Chantry doctrine didn’t help him at all when it came to knowing how to treat a First Enchanter or what to expect of them. And he needed any cooperation she might give, any pull she might contribute. He needed mages. Politics be damned, he wasn’t inviting that many templars to use their powers right next to him even if they’d begged him, which they most definitely hadn’t. So it was mages, then. This Vivienne had them. Or, as Josephine gently reminded him, she knew where they were, or at the very least she could influence them once found. In any case, her good will would be invaluable._ _

__All the morning’s tea took its toll, though. On his way back from one trip to the outhouse, he heard a laugh he recognized--sudden, loud, unselfconscious--and his eyebrows went up. He followed the sound down a plain, brick-floored hallway he hadn’t yet investigated, and found himself in the kitchen. Lunch preparations were in full swing--a woman stepping through a side door from the alley with a basket full of bread, an adolescent boy feeding corn cobs into the fire chamber of the large cast iron stove, a man shaving fine slivers of cheese from a large block--and in the middle of it all, sitting on the long central table, Sera. One cheek bulged with food, and she was gesticulating animatedly with the remains of a sausage._ _

__She broke off when Samhal filled the door. “Oh, here he is, All Chosen Lord Herald. Still know how to find a kitchen, then, at least.”_ _

__He shrugged fluidly. “I heard you. We’re not leaving ‘til tomorrow at least, though. Decided to move in already?”_ _

__“Thought I’d see if you had any good eats.”_ _

__“In that case, dig in now, because mostly I’ve been eating salted druffalo and shitty porridge. Don’t join for the food.” A quick flicker of a thought passed through, and he grabbed it. “We’re going to a party this evening though. Sorry, a _salon_. At some duke’s place. I’d be willing to bet the kitchen there’s worth raiding. And there might be worthwhile things to hear, too, if you’re interested.” _ _

__“So they invite you, and you want to spy on them? That’s trust right there.”_ _

__“Why? Should I be more trustful? Put my faith in destiny and believe the best of everyone? Assume an Orlesian will help me without any...personal incentive?”_ _

__“Piss, no! Just wanted to be sure we were thinking the same. I said I’m in and I’m in.”_ _

__Samhal left the kitchen with more spring in his step than had been there before. Tailoring his presentation to each person in turn--to impress, to charm, to seduce, more rarely to repel--was second nature, and he didn’t mind it. But there was a certain pleasure in talking to someone who would be most impressed by precisely the perverse, mistrustful asshole he always was in his own head._ _

__Well, perhaps the servants had been less impressed. But who thought of servants when they talked? That was the whole point, wasn’t it?_ _

__……………………._ _

__The carriage-ride to Duke Bastien’s château, just a bit outside the city, was a surprisingly pleasant interlude. Sera insisted on riding on the back with the groom, but Josephine prevailed on a fidgety Cassandra to sit inside. Her fidgeting only increased when Varric and Josephine took ruthless advantage to interrogate her about her youth and her family. Samhal had not yet heard the full story of her truly unbelievable rescue of the previous Divine, but evidently Varric had, and he was out for details. Cassandra’s disgruntled protests when Varric broke out his notebook were hilarious. Samhal felt buoyed by the imminent prospect of securing more mages, and for a while he felt almost...at home, perhaps._ _

__Duke Bastien’s château, surrounded by acres of neatly-clipped lawn studded with carefully-arranged trees, was an imposing structure. Sera hopped off in the neatly graveled driveway, and disappeared around the long arm of the drive with a saucy salute. Inside, the strains of hidden musicians echoed off of marble benches and inlaid floors. Elves in livery moved among the partygoers with trays of food and drink._ _

__The announcement of “Master Lavellan, on behalf of the Inquisition” created a genteel stir, but hardly more than “famed author, Varric Tethras”. Varric, grinning, soon found himself the center of a twittering group of fans. People approached Samhal more cautiously, but at first it seemed the evening would be much like the morning, only with champagne rather than tea. The same insipid fencing, the same sense of detachment from the struggles going on beyond their marble walls. Samhal remembered, with a sense of dislocated unreality, his own former life flitting through walled gardens surrounded by people like this--people who were still there, probably living largely as he had left them._ _

__Well, at least this was a dance he knew. As he conversed, his eyes moved constantly, searching for any sign of the ridiculous robes Circle mages seemed to wear, but he saw nothing. He knew, also, what it meant when the host did not rush to meet a guest. He’s spent enough years being the unobserved observer of the petty rivalries of nobles. His host was establishing precedence._ _

__“The Inquisition. What a load of pig shit.”_ _

__Oh, so it was going to be _that_ kind of party. He turned to watch the speaker, an unfamiliar man masked like the rest, descend the broad marble staircase towards him. The sword on his back was a strange accessory for a salon--a quick glance around showed that no one else had come so equipped._ _

__“Washed-up sisters and crazed Seekers. No one can take them seriously. Everyone knows it’s just an excuse for a bunch of political outcasts to grab power.” The man finished his slow, taunting circuit, and turned to face Samhal fully._ _

__Samhal arched his eyebrows in blatant mock-surprise. “Is that what everyone knows, then? How curious! And are you entirely disinterested in power, or would you like to rise on the wings of the Inquisition by killing demons and feeding refugees as well, since we are so powerful?”_ _

__“Don’t play the innocent. You with your army. We know what your Inquisition truly is. If you were a man of honor, you’d step outside and answer the charges.” With which, he began to reach for his sword._ _

__Samhal had barely half a second to absorb this turn of events when his challenger went suddenly rigid, rimed with frost, eyes bulging with shock._ _

__“Fuck!” Samhal yelped. He took a quick step back and opened himself to the Fade, reaching for power as he searched the room for this new threat. He felt Cassandra brush past him, but missed the familiar protective touch of Solas’ barrier._ _

__“My dear Marquis. How unkind of you to use such language in my house, to my guests.”_ _

__The voice was calm and cultured--almost gentle, but shocking in the tension of the moment. Samhal followed it to find a statuesque woman, skin darker than his own showing beneath her mask, descending the staircase. Everything about the woman, from her horned headdress and audacious robes to her proud carriage, demanded attention, and she clearly expected it._ _

__She went on smoothly. “You know such rudeness is...intolerable.”_ _

__“Madame Vivienne. I humbly beg your pardon.”_ _

__“You should. Whatever am I going to do with you, my dear?”_ _

___This_ was Vivienne, First Enchanter of Montsimmard? Well shit--if attacking people with magic at your own party was acceptable then Samhal understood even less than he thought he did about the Circle system, the Game, or both. _ _

__Vivienne, reaching the little tableau she had created, contemplated the unfortunate frozen Marquis for a moment before turning to Samhal._ _

__“My lord, you’re the wounded party in this unfortunate affair. What would you have me do with this foolish, foolish man?”_ _

__What Samhal wished for was two minutes alone with Josephine to review his options. Did he have to accept the challenge? Could he accept the challenge, and then have Cassandra humiliate the man? Well, it was a gamble but there might be an argument for it._ _

__“To be fair, I think that of those present, the most affronted is actually my ‘crazed Seeker’, the Right Hand of the Divine, Cassandra Pentaghast.” Cassandra turned to stare at him, startled by the redirection. “I feel it only fair to warn you, though. She did once slay multiple dragons with her own hand. Cassandra, would you like to answer this man’s challenge?”_ _

__Cassandra’s face went through a rapid series of contortions, caught between astonishment and irritation. Vivienne inserted herself smoothly into the gap._ _

__“What do you think, Marquis? Would you like to duel the Lady Seeker? Or have you reconsidered your ill-bred statements?” The man made a slight, frantic nodding motion, frost flaking off his neck and collar as he moved. Vivienne snapped her fingers and released him from her spell._ _

__“Poor Marquis--issuing challenges and hurling insults like some Ferelden doglord. And all dressed up in your Aunt Solange’s doublet. Didn’t she give you that to wear to the Grand Tourney? To think--all the brave chevaliers who will be competing left for Markham this morning...and you’re still here. Were you hoping to sate your damaged pride by defeating the Herald of Andraste in a public duel? Or did you think he could put an end to the misery of your failure?”_ _

__The outmatched Marquis hung his head in speechless defeat. Samhal repressed a snort of laughter._ _

__“Run along, my dear. Do give my regards to your aunt.” The Marquis, thus demolished and dismissed, fled. Vivienne and Samhal watched him go for a moment, and then Vivienne gave a small sigh and turned to him, smiling with a warmth that did not quite touch her eyes._ _

__“I’m delighted that you could attend this little gathering. I’ve so wanted to meet you. Come, do let’s find somewhere more comfortable to chat.” She turned and glided away without waiting for a response. Samhal followed, equal parts intrigued, confused, and wary._ _

__“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Vivienne, First Enchanter of Montsimmard and Enchanter to the Imperial court.”_ _

__“A pleasure to meet you, Lady Vivienne. You certainly know how to make an entrance. I was unaware that people would so willingly accept public use of magic here.”_ _

__“He attempted to draw his weapon, unprovoked, in the presence of witnesses. By chevalier code, his life was forfeit from the moment his hand fell to his hilt. Everyone here knows that I am a mage. Why should I use an inferior weapon when a superior one is at hand?” She smiled, and he recognized that smile, recognized it intimately for the carefully-crafted weapon it was._ _

__“Ah, but I didn’t invite you to the Chateau for pleasantries. With Divine Justinia dead, the Chantry’s in shambles. Only the Inquisition might restore sanity and order to our frightened people. As the leader of the last loyal mages of Thedas, I feel it only right that I lend my assistance to your cause.”_ _

__“I’m so very glad you feel that way. We welcome any assistance such an illustrious ally might provide. In particular, we are in dire need of more mages. The Mark I have been given allowed me to stabilize the Breach, but we believe that with enough magical power, we can close it for good.” He kept his tone light and his face smooth to match Vivienne’s, but if she only had a few mages, just a few..._ _

__“As leader of those mages loyal to the Chantry, how many mages might you bring to our cause?”_ _

__He saw her eyes flicker to the side for a split second._ _

__“Tragically, those who opposed the rebels were either slain or forced to go along for their own safety. I was away at the time of the rebellion, but my clerk and myself are ready to accompany you at your word. I am entirely confident that loyalist mages will flock to us if we provide them safe passage and shelter.”_ _

__Ah. Well. That was the proper repayment for high hopes, wasn’t it?_ _

__Samhal summoned his handsomest smile._ _

__“Then we’ll have to find a way to do just that, won’t we?”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short-ish chapter. Judging by the trouble I'm having finishing each week, I think I'm biting off a bit more than I can chew. Every additional scene means twice as much figuring as it does writing, it feels like.
> 
> As before, in-game scene means in-game dialogue. It feels kinda lame, but then, if we already know what they'd say in these circumstances, and the circumstances have changed but little, it doesn't really make sense to change the dialogue I think? I figure if you have to look it up to tell what's original and what I wrote, I'm doing okay.


	31. Chapter 31

“She isn’t all she says, you know.”

Samhal glanced up at Sera where she perched on a stack of trunks and barrels loaded up and waiting to be carted to the harbor.

“Oh?”

“The servants hate her. They sang like larks. _They_ say she isn’t any kind of First Enchanter, whatever that is. Was supposed to be or something but then everybody up and rebelled before she got there. Or maybe she is, like I know how these things work--but anyway, never ran any Circle for sure. Aren’t really her servants either, they’re Duke Fancypants’ and she’s his _mistress_.” Sera wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“Oh come on, you don’t think that’s well-played? Better than I ever managed, anyway.”

“All I’m saying is she sounds a proper snake.”

Varric came around the corner of the wagon, plucking fretfully at the new mend in his jacket. “A little birdie told me she’s got competition at the Imperial court, too. Empress has taken up with some hedge witch who showed up out of nowhere. But Fox, watch your step. I get the distinct impression she’s not a woman to be crossed.”

“Well, you know how much I love pissing people off, but I think I can hold it in for now. After all, I’ve got the look on Chancellor Roddy’s face when he hears about the last few days to look forward to. He was _so_ excited to see me hanged and I think he’ll be dreadfully disappointed.”

………………………....

Vivienne herself joined them before the sun could creep much further down whitewashed walls, along with her carriage full of trunks, her clerk, and three servants. Thus foregathered, they headed to the waiting ship, but Val Royeaux still held one more surprise for them.

A small elven woman stepped out of a side street just before they reached the harbor, raising her hand and calmly calling out, “A word with the Herald of Andraste”.

Cassandra’s eyes widened for a moment, and then her face tightened. She held up her hand to stop the carters.

“Grand Enchanter Fiona?”

For a quickly-covered moment, Samhal gaped. This was the widely-reviled leader of the mage rebellion? She was mousy and as small as Samhal himself, dressed in simple robes. But then, consider her poise, here in what was as much the seat of her enemy as it was Samhal’s. He scrambled down from the buckboard. This was a greater chance than he had hoped for, certainly a greater chance than the salon had proved to be.

“Grand Enchanter? What a welcome surprise. We have been very much hoping to speak to you.”

Before Fiona could respond, Vivienne spoke from behind him. “My dear Fiona, it’s been _so_ long since we last spoke. You look dreadful! Are you sleeping well?”

Fiona’s face frosted over, but she only nodded cooly. “First Enchanter Vivienne.” 

Samhal turned to Vivienne with a smile. “First Enchanter, it must be dangerous for Fiona to be seen here. Could we borrow the use of your carriage for a moment in private?”

“Of course, darling.”

Cassandra started to follow to the carriage, but he wasn’t going to let this chance slip to a too-blunt word. “Boss Lady, you’ll keep an eye on things out here, won’t you?” She stopped short with a grunt.

“Naturally.”

Once out of sight of prying eyes--and out of the presence of Vivienne, with whom he supposed it was only inevitable Fiona would have serious differences--he turned to Fiona again.

“It’s true, though. Surely it’s an enormous risk for you to be here?”

“My face is not so well known as that. I heard a rumor of the gathering you had intended here, and I wanted to see the Herald of Andraste with my own eyes. If it’s help with the Breach you seek, perhaps my people are the wiser option.”

Samhal felt himself sag visibly with the relief, and caught himself up quickly. “Those who would disagree can take their complaint to the templars, and I wish them much luck of it. I would be enormously grateful. I believe I can guarantee your safety among my people--we already harbor a small group of rebel mages.”

“Yes, but afterwards? I know what your companion the First Enchanter would see happen, but we do not intend to return to the Circles.”

“My first concern is the Breach and the rifts. Those are what I’ve been given the power to deal with. People are looking to me to resolve every hangnail and petty theft in the south of Thedas, but my priority is the Breach. I lack both the knowledge and the qualifications to resolve your conflict. All I can say”--he took a deep breath, hating to commit at the same time he knew it was true--”All I can say is that it will never be my order that imprisons other mages. Vivienne only joined us yesterday. She neither speaks for me nor controls me.”

Fiona nodded. “Fairly enough spoken. Consider this an invitation to Redcliffe. Come, meet with the mages. An alliance could help us both, after all.” She turned to step out of the carriage. “I hope to see you there soon. Au revoir, Lord Herald.”

“Wait!” Samhal climbed after her, cutting short a grab for her arm. “Couldn’t you come with us now? You can’t have come alone from...Redcliffe?? You were in Redcliffe? And we were so close! Look, we’re almost on the way there. You could travel with us. Do you have very many people with you? We could make an attempt on the Breach together.”

“I am sorry, Inquisitor, but we came in a small group to avoid attention, and I cannot make that decision without my people. See you in Redcliffe.”

She slipped away. Cassandra looked to Samhal to see if she should pursue, but he sighed and shook his head.

“If I chase her, how does that look? We can’t force them to help.”

Cassandra contemplated him for a moment. “I’ve never known you to be patient before.”

Samhal’s lip curled. “I’ve never known you to be an expert at handling people. She wasn’t going to come. Why look pathetic begging?”

Cassandra made a grunt of dissatisfaction.

“Look, you don’t think I want it over with? It’ll only be a few more days to go to Redcliffe, and they’ll have all the mages we could need, surely.”

…………………….

They had loaded and left port in good time, and given a good wind they would probably cross the Waking Sea by the next morning. Samhal had found a spot in the forecastle, overlooking the sea, and settled himself to enjoy the respite from “Be somewhere! Do something! Impress all these sniveling shitheads!”

Alas, it was too much to hope for, and Val Royeaux was still in sight when Vivienne approached him, moving delicately over the swaying deck.

“A lovely day, isn’t it, my lord Herald?”

Samhal contemplated the glare of sunlight off the water for a moment, and settled for a neutral, “I’m told the wind is good.”

“Indeed. Indulge my curiosity, if you would be so kind. You’ve never been to a Circle, is that correct?”

Goody, _this_ conversation. “That’s true, yes.”

“Were you self-taught, then?”

“I was taught by the elder mages in my clan.”

“Fascinating. I have heard about the traditions of magic among the Dalish Keepers, but it’s all third-hand. In my own experience, nothing is more deadly to a young mage than a lack of knowledge.”

“Were you not young when you were taken to the Circle, then? I had thought that the Chantry required that all mages be taken when they manifested.”

“Yes, naturally.”

“Then when are they dying? After they come to the Circle? What are they being taught?”

“Not all students are quick to learn.”

Samhal’s experience was largely limited to his clan, but the worst stories he could recall of young mages, past their first manifestation, was the occasional burn, or things getting rooted to the ground. Usually things to laugh about around the fire.

Vivienne went on speaking. “It makes the current state of things...precarious. What do you imagine will happen if the Circles are not restored? Do you forsee the Dalish taking us all under their wing?”

That image startled an involuntary laugh out of him. Taking in shems? A lot of the Dalish would rather they all killed each other, and he was sure that exact hope had been expressed openly by various members of his clan--he could even have predicted which, he thought--in the last year.

“Sorry. No, I don’t think we should hope for that.”

“You find the subject amusing? What do you wish to see happen?”

He _wished _to be left the fuck alone, now and in the future. “My attentions have been on the Breach. I know little of your Circles and could not pretend to have a useful opinion on the subject.”__

__Vivienne was quiet for a moment. “Justinia’s death has shattered the balance of power in Thedas. If it is not restored quickly, countless lives will be lost. Mages, templars, innocent people of all kinds now look to the Inquisition to decide their fate. For almost a thousand years, the world believed it was in the hands of the Maker. And now many believe you are the agent of his will. Whatever the truth is, that belief gives you power.”_ _

__That certainly clarified Vivienne’s motivations. He could not lose her goodwill so easily, though, when she might influence the mages in his favor if Fiona wouldn’t._ _

__“Again, the priority is the Breach. My expert says that either the mages or the templars could help close the Breach, but at the moment only the mages seem at all willing to talk. No doubt if the mages are willing to address this crisis when the templars are not, it will influence public opinion in their favor. If they will help, I will have them, and everyone will interpret that as they choose.”_ _

__“Or as you tell them to, dear.”_ _

__“Are you really so convinced, then, that Circles and templars must be joined again?”_ _

__“The templars serve an important purpose, if they can be made to remember it. Magic is dangerous, just as fire is dangerous. Anyone who forgets this truth gets burned.”_ _

__“And it’s your opinion that the Chantry’s is the only way to handle those dangers? The Dalish clans have neither Circles nor templars.”_ _

__“As I understand it, the elves limit their risk by refusing to have more than three mages in a clan. Tell me, what becomes of the Dalish youngster who is not appointed First or Second?”_ _

__Was it educated malice, or just a shot in the dark? Josephine had thought it best to keep the true story of his past unspoken outside of the people in whom he had already confided. This particular lie, he’d been less than happy to live, but it was easier than explaining his apostasy._ _

__“Why do you ask?”_ _

__“Do you believe exile for an accident of birth is morally superior to the Chantry’s system? Do you think that one so exiled and abandoned would agree with you?”_ _

__Samhal’s face stretched in such a strained parody of a smile that for a moment he thought he caught even the Madame de Fer’s eyes widen. “I think we could agree that neither system really has much to do with _morals_.”_ _

__“For those who value survival, sentimentality is not an option. You would be wise not to forget that, Herald.”_ _

__“I never have.”  
…………………………._ _

__By the time the gates of Haven came into sight, Samhal had resolved never to take Vivienne and Sera anywhere together again without a truly compelling reason. Even Varric was a bit snappish after six days of those two alternately sniping at each other and cutting each other dead. Samhal heard the gate guard heralding his arrival with a small sense of homecoming--after all, they’d all survived yet again, and they had a new goal within sight. He wondered idly if Solas knew any good magic tricks for a tense neck and aching head._ _

__The first person to greet him as the gate opened was Cullen, eyes darting worriedly over the party, stopping for a second on each as he counted them. The smile when he was finished transformed his face for a moment._ _

__“Master La--Samhal, sorry. We’re glad to see you all well. A scout brought news of templars in the city and we were...concerned. Also, someone is here to see you.” Samhal looked past Cullen, distracted by a disturbance in the gathering crowd. “He arrived the other day. I’m sure you deserve a pleasant surprise by now. I was unaware that you had--”_ _

__The source of the disturbance pushed its way to the front of the crowd with a last well-aimed elbow, cutting Cullen off with a shout._ _

__“Samhal!”_ _

__“--a brother.”_ _


	32. Chapter 32

Varric had been riding on the first of the supply sledges they’d joined up with, partway back in the trailing line of soldiers and recruits, while Samhal went ahead to go first through the gates as good showmanship dictated. Varric cleared the gates just in time to watch Cullen’s expression slip from pleased back to the more usual worried. He took in Samhal’s rigid back, the ring of watching faces, and at last the man standing across from him--bow on his back, knives at either hip, and unmistakably, aggressively Dalish in every tattooed line and leather-wrapped limb. And just as unmistakably closely related to Fox--brown, freckled, the red of his hair a shade less rich, the angles of his face a starker reflection of the Herald’s own. Solas stood behind him at the edge of the crowd, eyebrows shaping a tight vee of irritation.

“Samhal?” The man stepped forward, and Samhal jerked slightly, loose-limbed. 

Varric sighed, and slipped down off the crate he’d been riding.

“Well, Curly, you kept the place from burning down while we were away. Nice work. And who is this?” He strode past Samhal and held out a hand to the newcomer. “Varric Tethras, author and untrustworthy layabout, when I can manage it. You’ll excuse the Herald, it’s been a long trip and I think he’s getting a cold, sounded froggy earlier.” The man stared at Varric’s hand blankly for a moment before looking over him back at Samhal. Varric shrugged inwardly and let the hand drop. “Tell you what, let’s get all these people in safe, get someone to make hot toddies, and then you boys can catch up. Sound good, Fox?”

Samhal jerked his head in what Varric chose to interpret as a nod. Josephine came up beside him and spoke quietly, and he nodded a little more firmly and began to speak.

“People of the Inquisition, our journey has been successful. The Chantry no longer opposes our good work here. Um...as always, thank you for your faith in our mission and your brave service.” As the crowd cheered, he wound down like the strange clockwork doll Varric had seen once in the Black Emporium, staring at the new arrival until Josephine took him gently by the elbow and began leading him up the hill. 

The Dalish man fell in with Samhal as he passed. “Lethallin, I’ve crossed great distances to see you--”

“No, really?”

“Are you not free to speak in front of these shems?”

Samhal stopped for a moment, turning to face the man with a snarl. “The real question is whether I will ever be free to _not_ speak. _Wait _. I’m not doing...this...out here.”__

__Josephine left them at the steps to the Chantry with a worried half-wave. At the turning for Samhal’s cabin, he turned to Varric and forced a smile. “Thanks...friend. Save a drink for me later.” Varric stood in the snow and watched the two men, so matched and so different, walk away._ _

__“I thought he’d be happy, you know. To see his brother.” Varric realized with a start that Cullen had trailed them as well. “Fairly stupid of me in retrospect.”_ _

__“Well, if you feel like drinking it away, you know where to find me.”_ _

__……………………._ _

__“Why are you here, Ilen?”_ _

__“We thought you might need help.”_ _

__“We?”_ _

__“I. We. The clan. They supported my coming.”_ _

__“I thought I made it as clear as possible that I didn’t want it.”_ _

__“Many things can be written that are not true.”_ _

__“Why the sudden burning concern for my welfare? Is this some guilt-by-association thing, because the clan sent me to the Conclave?”_ _

__“You came as our representative. Attendance to one’s responsibilities is not an indication of guilt.”_ _

__“Don’t try it, Ilen. You always were a shitty liar.”_ _

__Ilen’s face tightened, and Samhal braced himself._ _

__“Why are you so bitter? Why are you acting like this, like you want nothing to do with us?”_ _

__Samhal’s face flushed hot, the last vestige of the enforced calm from outside snapping. “ _I_ want nothing to do with _you_? Of course I want nothing to do with you! And who started that?”_ _

__Ilen sighed and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “I don’t know, Samhal. Who started it?”_ _

__“It wasn’t a fucking trick question! Who do you think started it, _lethallin_ , a ten-year-old boy? Are you actually this fucking dense? Everyone hated me, and you—you--ignored me. I should return adoration for that?”_ _

__“Everyone _hated_ you? You! Samhal, the Keeper’s pet, the boy who stayed when half the elders wanted him gone, because he was so pretty and charming and clever, so full of stories of the outside world, and who ever noticed me? Plain Ilen. Just another hunter, and no better than average at that. Half the clan wanted you. Creators, Samhal, you screwed Enara just because you knew I wanted her—it was that easy for you!”_ _

__Samhal laughed incredulously. “They wanted me? Sure! Yes, she fucked me. But she married you. And who would ever have married me, if I’d wanted? I was a shadow, a parasite. A thing to play with to make their parents angry. Why, have you been holding that against me all these years? I didn’t coerce anyone. I didn’t take anything you had claim to.” He grinned, mirthless and sharp-toothed. “Or does _she_ hold it against _you_? Still having trouble measuring up to your little brother?”_ _

__“Bleeding thorns! You haven’t changed at all, have you?”_ _

__“How the fuck would you know? Clearly you never knew me. You don’t know the first thing about me, and you haven’t since Mamae died. When I needed you, and you shut me out, and now here you are and you think I’ll be _grateful_?”_ _

__Ilen threw out his hand like a plea, or a shield. “I was hurting too! I was a _child_ , Samhal! I was grieving! I loved you, but..”_ _

__“You _loved_ me? Don’t come talking to me about _love_ now; it’s a great many years too late for that. Love is a pretty story. We abandon it as soon as it’s too much trouble. _You_ taught me that.” _ _

__Samhal stared unblinking at his brother, waiting to see if Ilen would deny the charge. Ilen stared back, face slack with shock. After a long moment, his shoulders sagged. He glanced away, rubbing a hand over his eyes again, and then looked back to Samhal._ _

__“You really believe that, don’t you? It’s not true, I swear. Look, I don’t know why...I don’t...I’m so…sorry. For all these years, and all the hurt you’ve felt, oh, Little Kit”—_ _

__There was a sharp burst of cold, and the stoneware jug on the table next to Ilen shattered with a loud crack, falling away from the flash-frozen ice inside. Samhal stood so fast that his stool toppled and went rolling._ _

__“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare call me that. Don’t you dare pity me. You don’t get to be innocent, like you never knew anything was wrong, like you’re just realizing…” He broke off, breathing hard. “Just...leave. Leave me alone.”_ _

__It took Ilen a moment to pull his gaze away from the shards of the jug. He searched Samhal’s face, maybe hunting for a softening that he would not find._ _

__“I’m sorry.”_ _

__He turned, then, and left, closing the cabin door behind him softly. Samhal stared at the rough, splintered wood, suspended in time. Finally, he turned away. He snatched up the chunk of ice and flung it at the opposite wall, watching as it exploded into sharp-edged chunks._ _

__“I just wanted everyone to leave me alone. Just leave me alone.”_ _


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *explicit sexual content in this chapter*

Solas balanced his tray of food neatly with one hand and rapped on the rough wood door with the other. Several seconds passed with no response as he stood in the thickening dusk.

“I am alone, lethallin. I have brought food.”

Another silence, and then, “Whatever.” 

There came the sound of motion, and finally the latch lifted and the door creaked open. Solas slipped in quickly to leave the cold outside. He glanced around, taking in the dwindling fire in the little stove, the shattered jug, the new heavy fur on the bed, pulled back as if someone had already been under it. Samhal’s coat, jacket, and boots were tossed untidily to one side. 

Samhal padded back to the bed on stocking feet, leaning against the wall and wrestling the cover over his knees. Shrugging inwardly, Solas joined him, resting the tray on the bed between them.

“So you’re Josie’s errand boy now, huh?” Samhal reached out a slender finger, now calloused and with a long, pale scar across the back, to probe at one of the two little chocolates set neatly in a corner of the tray. Each was beautifully decorated with a curl of candied orange peel and three golden non-pareils.

“I relieved the original courier of his burden.”

“Ah.” Samhal picked up a chocolate, contemplating it. “She got these for herself, you know. We weren’t supposed to see them.”

“And yet here they are.”

Samhal grunted and took a thoughtful bite, tongue darting out to catch an escaped fragment of chocolate. He closed his eyes and leaned back until his head thumped against the wall

“Your brother arrived in Haven several days ago. I believe Sister Nightingale would have sent you a message had she been able.”

That earned a half-hearted snort. “Yeah, then I could’ve just not come back.”

Solas considered and discarded several possible responses to that before settling, leaning back as well, shoulder inches from Samhal’s against the wall.

“He holds himself apart from the others here for the most part, but he did hear from some quarter that you and I have traveled together a great deal. His questioning has been quite persistent.”

Samhal huffed. “Fuck, lucky you.”

“Ilen has struck me as the very model of a Dalish hunter.” Solas failed to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“By which you mean obnoxiously competent, self-righteous, stiff-necked, and allergic to ‘shems’, I guess. I didn’t know you’d met the Dalish before, though.”

“I have wandered many roads in my time, and crossed paths with the Dalish on more than one occasion.”

“You don’t find the Dalish without putting a lot of effort and skill into it. What, did you want to study them? Somehow I can’t see you as some ‘flat ear’ running to the Dalish to claim sanctuary.”

“Hardly. I sought them out, yes, and offered to share knowledge, only to be attacked for no greater reason than their superstition.”

“ _Attacked?_ A fellow elf?” Solas breathed in sharply, prepared for skepticism, but Samhal went on quickly. “No I believe you, I just...what the Void did you _do_?”

“I? I did nothing but offer understanding. They are children, acting out stories misheard and repeated wrongly a thousand times.” The remembered frustration, the anger and pain bubbled up, and his hands slashed through the air as he spoke.

“Ah, _understanding_. And I’m sure you were really humble and not at all condescending when you offered to improve them with your greater understanding of the world, right?”

Solas bridled. “While they pass on stories, mangling the details, I walk the Fade. I have seen things they have not.”

“And you think they should just take your word for it? Look, if you talked to them like you talked to me...I wanted to know. I _asked_. I’ve already seen multiple viewpoints; I know at least one side’s wrong. You do this thing, you just say it like you know, like you’re the expert and of course everyone should just believe you. You can’t just go to people like that and tell them they’re wrong about their cherished beliefs, about things they think keep them safe and whole. That’s not how people fucking work!”

“And you would have me leave them to their ignorance? Or perhaps I am meant to reassure them of their righteousness, tell them only what they wish to hear?”

Samhal jerked upright at that, rattling the tray violently. Solas caught the teetering carafe of tea before it fell. “Really? That’s your line? Is that not exactly what you’ve been telling me to do from the fucking beginning? ‘Posturing is necessary, Samhal.’ It’s alright for me, but you’re above it, right?”

Solas’ hand hovered over the tray, arrested.

“You know what? That only makes you the same as them. ‘We’re too good to lie; we’re too noble. But we need a liar. Samhal lies. Samhal is handsome and charming and he lies so prettily. Samhal will lie for us. But our hands, _our_ hands are clean, and when we’re tired of it, off he goes, and his lies with him.’ Will you hate me for it too, Solas? When my lies are not wanted any more?”

Samhal knelt on the bed, braced forward on his hands, eyes intent on Solas’ face, crackling with so many years’ anger. Solas cursed himself for his ugly misstep as his anger and the purity of it drained away.

“Ir abelas, lethallin. Your anger is understandable. I spoke poorly. But no, I will not hate you, certainly not for that. I would not hate you for doing what must be done.” Samhal’s face softened a little. If only he knew--but it would be no comfort, to learn how right he was, how history remembered those who did what must be done.

“Though, as you say, you have only my word for it.” He assayed a small smile, and Samhal responded with a snort, rocking back to hug his knees. “Again, I apologize. You have not deserved my anger, and I have added to your burden.”

Samhal toed idly at the tray for a moment, shifting it over the fur cover, and then sighed.

“They’re just people, you know. People are all assholes. Their mistake is thinking they’re better. It’s your mistake if you think they’re worse.”

Solas watched Samhal’s averted face with fascination. “You think so? Samhal, about your brother--”

“Yeah I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Perhaps later.”

“Perhaps never. Guess what else? I’m not hungry. Not for food, anyway.” Samhal bounced off the edge of the bed, grabbing the tray up and plunking it down on the small side table. “I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t want to think about it.” He crawled back onto the bed, slipping up Solas’ legs. Solas felt the heat blooming in his chest as the other man settled into his lap. 

“So let’s not think.”

He kept his hands pressed into the nap of the fur and studied Samhal’s downturned face carefully. “I question whether I should be enabling this evasion.” He kept his tone as neutral as possible.

“Oh, right, you just took that tray out of the goodness of your heart. You were going to leave right away though.” Samhal grinned. “Missed me, did you?” Samhal shuffled forward, shimmying against Solas’ chest, and Solas knew that he must feel his body stir in interest.

It was true, though. For many, many years he had neither had such intimacy nor, truly, missed it. Samhal and his frank seduction, his blunt uncomplicated offering of pleasure for pleasure, had taken him unawares. Yes, he had been surprised to find himself awake at night, remembering the feel of soft skin under his hands, remembering closed eyes and parted lips instead of rushing back to the Fade as always before. He half-intended to call an end to their arrangement this evening, almost hoped that time and distance had left a space that could simply be allowed to grow. The other half wanted exactly what was being offered, and he couldn’t pretend otherwise.

“I have thought that perhaps this arrangement is becoming a distraction.”

“A distraction? Yes, it’s a distraction! When did I ever say differently? Distract me, distract me, oh Void, distract me, Solas. Help me forget my asshole brother and every vile, condescending airhead in Val Royeaux and all the insults I took with a smile and the templars...all those templars. Help me…” Samhal’s body was tensing against his chest, his voice rough above Solas’ ear. “...help me forget...”

The hitch on the last words caught at him, and Solas’ arms moved of their own accord, wrapping tightly around the slight waist, thinner and harder than it had felt when first he touched it.

“I have heard the stories already. You carried yourself well. You mastered your fear; you did not require me.”

“But I wanted you.” 

It was a whisper, barely audible, and even so Samhal pulled back immediately at the admission, contracting away from him. Solas unclasped his hands, letting Samhal retreat. He looked up to meet Samhal’s searching eyes, and hesitated, teetering. 

Perhaps this was where Samhal would make the break himself. Perhaps it would be better…

“But you’re here now.”

“I am.”

“So make it up to me now. Let’s forget it all.”

Solas’ arms closed again around the smaller man, pulling their hips tight together, and Samhal melted against him, open and pliant and vulnerable in the space between two bodies. He twisted at the waist, carrying them both over onto the bed, pushing lingering doubts into a hard kiss. 

Samhal mumbled, “Warm me” against his lips, and he obliged, channeling a thread of energy to blow heated air across Samhals lips and down his jaw, pressing hot, open kisses down his neck. Samhal accepted the attentions with an unreserved moan, arching into the touch.

“Do that again. Do that everywhere indefinitely, please.” Solas lavished heated breath across Samhal’s chest, down his stomach, quick and without pattern. He had imagined a slow, lingering reintroduction of bodies, another careful, controlled display of skill. Now he strained against his leggings, flushed with all the heated visions of the past weeks. Hands and mouths moved impatiently, pushing and pulling at fabric and fastenings, hastened by the urge to touch. Samhal ground up into him insistently.

He twisted his fingers into the waist of Samhal’s pants, and Samhal lifted his hips and shimmied slightly in response, shedding the leather leggings like a snakeskin. Solas threw the pants to join the other clothing scattered across the floor. He shimmied down between Samhal’s legs to blow hot air over Samhal’s bared cock, making it twitch violently. Glancing up at the other man, he swiped his tongue up the length of it once before catching it firmly in the ring of his fingers. Eyes still fixed to Samhal’s, he wetted his lips with a teasing tongue and then slid them slowly over the tip of Samhal’s cock. Samhal gasped, eyes wide, fingers scrabbling over his head and ears.

Catching control of himself, he set a leisurely pace, savoring the silken skin gliding over his tongue, the desperate, hungry little noises spilling out of Samhal, the slight tremor in one thigh as he stroked it with his free hand. After a minute, he glanced up at Samhal’s face and found him propped on one elbow, watching raptly.

“Creators. Haahh. Sorry, I’m not used yet to...that’s not a thing I get a lot of.” Solas’ eyes twinkled as he slowly slipped up the length of Samhal’s cock, coming off the tip with a quiet pop.

“A shameful waste, then. Where might I find that little pot of salve?”

“On the trunk, in the...over there.” Solas kept up a gentle stroking rhythm with one hand and reached out with the other to catch the pot of slick as it bobbed near. Samhal laughed breathlessly. “You can always tell you’re used to being alone. All these little things...magic’s so casual to you.”

“Once, there was so much more. Magic was in everything, and everything was done with magic.”

“I can’t even ima--hnngh” Samhal twisted on his fingers as he slipped them gently inside. He watched raptly for a minute as Samhal squirmed and bucked against his hand before returning his attention to Samhal’s cock.

Minute after minute he worked steadily and deliberately with hands and mouth, bringing Samhal to teeter, swearing, at the edge and then easing back, watching with hooded eyes as the other man sweated and panted, circling his hips chasing the pressure Solas denied him, and at last hissed with frustration.

“You’re not going to let me off the hook, are you?”

“I believe you demanded a distraction? You were very clear, I thought. Are you not distracted?”

“Fuck you. Come kiss me.”

Solas shifted up Samhal’s body until one hand slid under a shoulder to cradle the back of his head and angled his head for a deep kiss. Samhal caught his lip with his teeth as they parted.

“Okay, now do the hush thing.”

Solas freed a hand, and a barrier sprang up around them, perceptible only where it threw back the moonlight strangely. The slight nighttime sounds of Haven dimmed to almost nothing.

“Okay, and now--no, don’t go anywhere, I want to see it. I want to see your eyes when you lose it--now fuck me ‘til I wail.”

Samhal’s body welcomed him in, unresisting, legs curling around his back, heels urging him deeper. He watched Samhal’s face, heavy-lidded and open-mouthed, expression focused inward. Once, he had made love for months at a time, in ways that would be difficult even to describe now. For Samhal, everything was now. Survive now, get through this day, eat the chocolate first--before someone thinks better of it, before it all ends again. There was an intensity to the immediacy of it all. He let it pull at his senses--the hair tangled around his fingers, Samhal’s body rocking up to meet him, the high, breathy tone of his cries, the smell of sweat and lingering traces of some perfumed oil. He let Samhal’s urgency pull the pace higher and higher until the bed creaked under his thrusts, until Samhal’s hands clung to the headboard for traction and his voice pitched upwards to the desired wail. 

Solas staved off his own climax through sheer willpower, hunting for the motion that would take Samhal’s voice to the breaking point. When he found it, when Samhal began to shake under him, he felt his control slip. The strangled yell as he wrapped his fingers around Samhal’s cock carried him over the edge. Samhal came apart under him completely and in return, for a moment, his consciousness unraveled and blew away.

In the moment of stillness after the last sparks of his climax flickered through him, he looked down at Samhal. Strands of hair were caught in the sweat on his forehead, his face open and unguarded, and it struck Solas, all at once, just how beautiful he was.

After, Solas leaned heavily on his elbows, panting against Samhal’s neck. Samhal twitched against his stomach in an aftershock and then shivered, still gasping for breath as well.

“Fuck, okay, that was...haaahh. That was what I needed.”

A few minutes later, they were cleaned up, the barrier dispelled. Samhal had pulled on his undershirt and scrambled back under the fur cover. Solas was mostly dressed, smoothing the twists out of his hastily-removed leg bindings, when Samhal caught lightly at his arm.

“Ahh...could you...could you tell me a story? Something from the Fade?” Solas turned towards him, surprised. “Something...something gentle. No fighting. No dying.” Samhal held up the edge of the covers in invitation.

“It...would be my pleasure.”

After a few minutes, the questions and observations trickled to a stop, and Solas angled his head awkwardly to find Samhal’s eyes closed, face slack with sleep. He watched for a bit, feeling Samhal’s chest rise and fall against his side, before cautiously beginning to disentangle himself. As he shifted, Samhal’s fingers tangled and tightened in his tunic and he mumbled something indecipherable but distinctly disgruntled.

If Solas left early enough, there would be few enough people around to remark it. He could stay for a while. It would make no difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe me, no one is more annoyed at how long it took me to get this chapter out than I am myself. Lots of stuff changing, and I hope I manage to find a new rhythm that allows me to write faster, but I haven't yet. It's funny, I meant this to be a smutty story, and it really hasn't turned out that way, and now it's been so long since there was smut here that I'm nervous about it. :P
> 
> Well, I hope you enjoy.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm here, I'm here, I'm not dead and neither is the story. Just took me a really long time to get this one out.

Samhal woke to a knock on the cabin door and the thin, cold light of early morning. Solas was gone, but he knew better than to be surprised by that.

His breakfast tray was brought by a regular courier this time, but behind the first courier stood a second, this one carrying a large assortment of boxes and bundles. Several he recognized as purchases from Val Royeaux, but there were quite a few that were unfamiliar.

The package-bearer shifted under Samhal’s scrutiny.

“Where should I put these, my lord Herald?”

“What are they?” Samhal picked a bundle from the top of the load, plucking idly at the ragged fringe of the cloth it was wrapped in.

“Gifts, my lord.” The courier sounded bemused by the question.

“Who from?”

“Why, your people, my lord.”

 _Your people_

After the runners had left, Samhal gnawed abstractedly on a warm roll and opened a few of the packages. A chunk of honeycomb, wrapped up in waxed paper. A belt, decorated in a twining pattern of brightly-colored mabari that must have taken many hours’ work. A roughly carved talisman he didn’t recognize, twisted up in a poorly-spelled note that assured him the charm was protective against “the cowld thet bites an sickens th hand an tow, thet they turn gray an die”.

Stupid sods could barely keep themselves warm and fed; what business did they have giving so much to him? For what, another stupid sod no better than them, only with stranger luck? A pretty lie?

_Your people_

He took extra care with his preparations that morning, armoring himself in the careful lines of his kohl, a tiny and totally indulgent touch of gold shimmer on the inner corners, a few drops of his new oil to smooth down stray hairs. Nice things, pretty things. He wrapped his sash carefully. He lingered a moment before transferring his pouches and knife to the new belt, feeling absurdly as though he was taking something that had really been meant for someone else. He hesitated, sneering at himself, and finally tucked the charm against frostbite into a fold in his sash. Last of all, he shrugged into the now well-worn green hood, and thus armored, he stepped out.

Ilen was not, as he had half-feared, lying in wait for him, and he made it all the way to the courtyard in front of the Chantry without being stopped. The people bowed as he passed, but for the most part there was neither the hatred nor the awe that people elsewhere showed. They knew him--either directly or indirectly, they knew things about the real him, and not only Andraste’s prophet. They knew that he hated the snow and danced drunkenly on table tops. He wondered what they made of it all, really.

“Herald, a moment!” Cullen’s brisk tones caught him perhaps ten paces from the relative warmth of the Chantry--honestly, he thought the man prefered the cold.

“You should know that Cassandra and Josephine have done their part to bring us up to date on events in Val Royeaux. We thought it best to allow you time for your...personal affairs.”

Samhal grunted, then thought better and amended to a rough, “Thanks”.

“You know I was against it, but I can’t deny that you have turned the trip to very good account. I’m confident we can secure more aid now that, thanks to your work, the Chantry no longer opposes us. Indeed, morale even among your own people is noticeably higher in some quarters since your announcement last night.”

 _Your people_. Samhal’s jaw ticced briefly.

“I didn’t do anything special.” It came out harsher than he’d meant. He really wasn’t doing a good job of regulating this morning. The urge to _run_ gnawed at him. He pulled the hood tighter around his face.

“On the contrary, everyone speaks of your boldness and the strength of your speeches. All the--” Cullen stumbled, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer, less sure. “All the more so in light--forgive me, but in light of how some few of us know that...templars...that you.” Cullen stumbled to a stop again, and Samhal watched him, chest tight. “I’ve been told of your...unfavorable reaction...to templars.” 

Samhal’s face hardened. “Who told you?”

“I’m making a hash of this, I’m sorry. No one intends to pry; I realize that I presume. Leliana told me so that I could manage the templars here to cause you the least distress. I fear I must bear a heavy share of the responsibility and I will do what I can to help.”

“Forget it. It’s my problem.”

Cullen visibly hesitated, opened his mouth and then closed it again, and at last said, “I understand. Better perhaps than you imagine.”

After a moment’s awkward silence, Cullen cleared his throat. “Shall we find the others, then?” He turned towards the Chantry doors, face leading as if to escape the moment he had accidentally created. To his own surprise, Samhal reached out and caught Cullen’s arm, and Cullen looked down at his hand and then back at Samhal, surprised.

“Thank you.”

Cullen smiled, cautious and crooked. The smile transformed his face, rounding wind-reddened cheeks and softening the usual severity of his gaze. “Hawke once told me that I was too much alone. At the time, I told her I was never alone. I thought it a bit ridiculous, if I’m honest. I understand better now what she meant.”

…………………….

Samhal’s fragile smile evaporated as soon as the Chantry door shut out the clatter of the sparring field. A service was being held in a side chapel, and the words of Exaltations spilled out of the doorway, sonorous and piercing.

_The air itself rent asunder,  
Spilling light unearthly from the  
Waters of the Fade,  
Opening as an eye to look  
Upon the Realm of Opposition  
In dire judgment._

Samhal walked faster, eager to shut out the words of the prophecy. 

_And in that baleful eye I saw  
The Lady of Sorrow, armored in Light,  
Holding in her left hand the scepter  
Of Redemption. She descended  
From on high, and a great voice  
Thundered from the top of every  
Mountain and…_

He pushed the war room door closed behind him and shut out the rest of the grim litany.

“Don’t have a great voice. Passable at best. Wasn’t known for my _voice_.” He muttered it under his breath as an empty defiance. Cullen, whose longer legs had carried him to the table faster than dignity had allowed Samhal, looked up from the map curiously, but asked no question.

Leliana and Josie came in together, talking quietly about something. Samhal waited until they looked towards the table, and then knocked the marker on Val Royeaux over with a flourish.

“ _So_. Val Royeaux and the Chantry can suck my perfectly proportioned dick. That’s done. Next up, we re-provision, I get a haircut because this shaggy bullshit on my neck is driving me up the walls, and we’re off to Redcliffe to get some mages. Seal the rifts, cancel the apocalypse, and I’m off to Rivain to get laid somewhere where that doesn’t require ten blankets. That’s my plan, and if any of you want something different, it had better be really fucking compelling, because I really like my plan.”

When all three advisors objected at once, the only surprise was that Cassandra kept silent. The tightening of her eyes might almost have been guilt--but of course that was nonsense.

“We cannot seem too eager to choose sides, Master Lavellan. Perhaps if we…”

“Don’t be so quick to throw away the templars. I’m certain not everyone in the Order will support the Lord Seeker. We will need…”

“Herald, you cannot imagine…”

Cullen and Josephine petered to a stop at the same time, looking slightly sheepish, and Leliana seized the moment’s silence.

“Herald, you are not so naive as to believe that it will be that simple. We do not yet have any idea who caused the explosion at the Conclave or what their eventual goal might be. They could be awaiting you among the mages--yes, yes, or the templars. The sealing of the Breach is our first priority, not our only goal.”

“Oh but it is definitely _my_ only goal, or at least my only goal that’s of any concern to you. Come on, what’s your excuse for holding me after I’m done using the trick hand? You know perfectly well that hole in the sky isn’t the work of the Maker and I’m no fucking prophet, and _so does whoever actually caused it_. Listen, if I stay, I’m a liability in that fight. If I go, if I just disappear, I’m a memory, and memories can be whatever you want them to be. Far easier for everyone. You must have had a plan before me, just carry on with that in my revered and holy name.”

“You underestimate yourself. You underestimate the esteem you are held in, the affection your people--”

“ _Stop fucking saying that!_ Elgar’nan’s fucking balls, stop saying ‘your people’ at me!”

The breathless silence stretched for several seconds. Josephine’s hand was arrested awkwardly halfway across her face for a moment. Leliana sighed and pursed her lips before speaking again.

“Whose people do you imagine they are, then, Samhal? They are not here for us. We are none of us leaders, not in the way you have proven to be. They are not here for the Chantry, which stood directly against us--until _you_ changed that. They are here for you, and the hope that you represent.”

“Don’t even try. They’re not here for me, they’re here for a lie. A lie _you_ told; that’s not on me. They don’t hold me in esteem--they don’t _know_ me.”

The two faced each other across the table in the lamplight, eyes locked. When Leliana spoke again, Josephine started slightly in the corner of Samhal’s eye.

“What would you have me tell the people out there, that we are under attack by an unknown enemy with the power to tear open the sky, that the order they were raised in has fallen down around their ears, that there is no shape to it, no hope? Do you believe that to be the truth? Because I do not.”

“ _I don’t want anyone else dying for me!_ I don’t...” He stopped and smoothed back his hair slowly, forcing the tension out of his shoulders. “I don’t want anyone else dying for me, and I don’t want to die for them. It’s not my job, and I don’t want it.”

Cassandra began to say something, but stopped at a raised hand from Leliana. The spymaster studied him for a long moment, lamplight shifting across the planes and curves of her face.

“Of course. All of us, here--” her gesture encompassed herself, Cassandra and the other two advisors “--we chose to be here. We knew it would be a hard road. You have made no such choice. After the Breach is sealed and the rifts controlled, if you truly wish to leave, my people will ensure that you disappear cleanly and help you relocate somewhere safe.”

“What, really?” Samhal eyed Leliana askance. Cassandra made a small garbled noise in the background.

“You have my word.”

…………………….

A loud knock on the war room door disrupted the tension of the moment violently. Samhal’s hand tensed briefly on the edge of the table before he composed himself. 

“Enter”, Cassandra barked, and a courier slipped in, looking slightly awed by the company she found herself in.

“Sister Nightingale--sorry, but you said--we got a letter with a left-facing crow. You said to bring those to you right away.” She held out a slightly battered waxed paper envelope. Leliana took the note and nodded a dismissal. She glanced at the even, looping writing and then checked slightly.

“For you, Herald.”

Samhal took the letter expressionlessly. It was addressed to “Fox”, in a hand he did not recognize. He slipped it from its protective covering and began reading. When he was done, he chewed his lip for a moment, and then read it again, this time out loud.

_Dear Cousin--_

_I’ve been making good returns on the coin you gave me--trade has been brisk. We’ve been traveling with a band of performers--in fact, you met their chief in Val Royeaux. The terribly grating clown with the jaundiced face, you recall. But I suppose Nana was right that there’s no accounting for taste, because he seems quite popular with his people. I do think a few of them might take their talents elsewhere with a little encouragement, though--might be a business opportunity there for us._

_They’re a fast-living, hard-drinking lot, I’ll tell you that. They’ve found this new-vintage Red from somewhere, and the clown swears by it, though I’ve heard whispers that it’ll rot your mind and give you the gout far worse than the usual rotgut. Still, it’d be good to find their supplier._

_They’re such a jolly lot, I think I’ll stick with them for now. I hear their next gig is in a drafty old out-of-the-way place in the Southron Hills, but they’re expecting crowds. If you decide to follow us, Seek me out just this side of the Brecilian’s westernmost point._

_Give my best to everyone, and look out for yourself._

The letter was unsigned.

“What nonsense is this? What cousin?” Cullen leaned over Samhal’s shoulder, squinting at the letter.

“No cousin. It’s Charter--I sent her after the templars when they took off.”

Cassandra let out a surprised bark of laughter. “And the Lord Seeker is the jaundiced clown, then?”

“What, you’re going to argue? But look, Cullen, she agrees with you--not everyone’s so happy to follow his lead. She thinks you should try to get them to defect.”

“Then this bit about...Maker, are they _drinking_ red lyrium. That’s madness!”

“Creators, yes. We knew they had some deal, but...well, at least we have a start on the supplier question, and I know Varric’s been tracking that down. Now I guess we know what they’re doing with it, too. Fuck, what would that even do, drinking it?”

“It’s completely daft! I saw what just carrying red lyrium around did to Meredith. I shudder to imagine what taking it in place of the blue must do. We can’t let this continue!”

“What does it say about their next destination again?” Leliana held a hand out for the letter. “Outside the Brecilian…”

Samhal read it out again. “In the Southron Hills...just this side of the Brecilian’s westernmost point.”

“But the Southron Hills stretch for days, and there’s hardly anything there!”

“Well, she’s capitalized Seek. Why? Only other word like that’s Red, and that’s for emphasis.”

“Therinfal Redoubt.”

They all looked towards Cassandra.

“They’re going to the old Seeker fortress at Therinfal. They must be. As Leliana says, there’s hardly anything else there. It’s been empty for generations; no one would have looked for them there except their own suppliers.”

Samhal sighed, and flicked the paper in his hands a couple of times before putting it in Leliana’s waiting hands.

“So do as Charter says, obviously. You have templars, send them”

Cullen rubbed his neck. “Subterfuge is hardly a task templars are trained to. But you are right--if they were to go, ostensibly to rejoin the others, they would stand a better chance than anyone else of being accepted. I will consider the candidates.”

Leliana spoke next. “And then send them to me, yes? I will see to their preparation.”

“Great! Then it’s a plan. Happy, Cullen? We’re doing something about your precious templars. Meanwhile, you’re all shitty at persuading me, which I guess is why you think you need me in the first place, so the rest of the plan’s the same. Provisions for the trip to Redcliffe, a barber for me, and I’m going to lunch.”

…………………….

Samhal saw Ilen in every pointed ear, every brown hand, every suspiciously light print in the snow. In the tavern, his skin crawled with the exposure, but it was worse alone in his cabin. After half an hour straight of staring at the cabin door, he tried a different tack and headed for the spot, and the person, he thought Ilen least likely to approach--Cullen’s command tent next to the practice field.

Cullen looked up from his makeshift desk with some surprise, but accepted Samhal’s excuse with politely reserved skepticism.

“I’ve spent a lot of time with Josie and Cassandra--I know what they do--and Leliana scares me and is invisible until you want her anyway. I figure I ought to spend a little time seeing what you do.”

“I’m afraid it’s mostly very boring to watch.”

“I would be only too happy to be bored for a while.”

Samhal made himself comfortable in a corner, retreating into his furs and making himself small until Cullen returned to the rhythm of his day. It _was_ mostly boring. A great deal of paper shuffling, apparently, for starters. The most interesting thing that happened in the next twenty minutes was the soldier who was brought in for discipline. Stealing food from visiting nobles was, apparently, beyond the authority of the man’s sergeant. Samhal winced slightly when Cullen assigned the light-fingered soldier to public apology followed by digging and filling latrines and dismissed them.

As Cullen sat back down, Samhal’s attention was drawn fully to something he’d been slowly noticing over the last minutes. The commander moved stiffly, carefully, every move seemingly calculated to disturb as little as possible. He had stayed in his chair for everything before the soldier, and when he sat, his hand moved almost constantly to knead at the back of his neck. It seemed out of character, but…

“Hangover?”

Cullen looked up from the latest page of lines and squiggles, momentarily blank. “Pardon? Oh! Oh, no. I am...ah...Merely a touch under the weather. It will pass.”

Samhal wondered what would make such a bad liar try it anyway, but didn’t press. “Headache, though, right?”

“Yes. It’s alright, really.”

They lapsed back into silence, but Samhal watched him start to reach for his neck and abort the movement several times in the next minutes.

“I can do a little thing that might help. Nothing too...I have to touch you, and it’s magic, but it’s not...it’s not magic that works on you. If that’s alright.”

Cullen didn’t reply immediately, and Samhal shuffled nervously and wished he hadn’t said anything. “Just a bit of heat, is all. Might relax the muscles.”

Finally, Cullen let out a sigh. “If you will.”

Samhal slipped off his gloves and focused a thread of energy to warm his hands, shifting Cullen’s mantle out of the way. At the first touch of warmth, Cullen let out an involuntary sigh and leaned into the thumb kneading at the base of his skull, but almost immediately he stiffened again. Samhal did his best, hindered by the man’s metal shell, to search out the ends of muscles too long tense, but they were _all_ tense.

“Does the magic make you uncomfortable? Should I stop?”

“No, the magic is familiar enough.” He sat silent for a few more seconds, but did not relax. “It is...are you sure that you don’t mind? I know that after...what happened, I know you feared me. I’ve had enough practice recognizing fear. I would not want to believe this another effort to win your safety from me.”

“Oh. Huh.” Samhal found a knot with the heel of his hand and leaned into it, the fine hairs at the back of Cullen’s neck bristling against his palm. “Look. I’ve been beaten up before. I fucked up, I got busted, pretty simple. Not a lot of room for error in my life. You weren’t the worst. I fucked up.” Probably the most terrifying, yeah, but it didn’t seem useful to mention that. He shrugged, then realized that Cullen couldn’t see it. “If you’re not pissed any more and don’t want to hit me currently, I guess that puts you at no scarier than the rest of the world.” Not precisely true, no, but he didn’t really understand why he couldn’t quite seem to hold onto his fear of Cullen and didn’t feel like analyzing it.

Cullen turned, breaking his grip and looking up at him. “And you want to go back to that, then? What is is that you hate so much about your life here?”

Samhal stopped, studying the other man’s deep-set eyes. Sharing was supposed to be part of this friend thing, right? Easy enough to share something any elf would already have understood anyway.

“It’s the same life. It’s the same world. It’s the same game. I mean, obviously, the...hmm...stuff changes, but people don’t. So long as they want me I’m well enough off. What do you think’ll happen now when I slip up? A bloody nose and some cracked ribs? What, templar, do you think is the likely fate of the savage apostate knife-ear who destroyed the Chantry and posed as the prophet of the Maker?”

“...I see.”

Samhal shrugged again and grinned lopsidedly. He smoothed Cullen’s mantle back into place and retrieved his gloves.

“What about you? Do you wish you could go back to your old life?”

The amber eyes shuttered immediately.

“No. Not even--no. There is no going back.”

………………….

Horses and people were milling about for last-minute preparations in the early morning light, and Samhal was giving his bay mare’s girth and bags a last go-over. He hadn’t seen Ilen since the first night, and had begun to think his brother must have decided to leave him alone after all. Scouts had been sent ahead to Redcliffe, and a handful of templars and Leliana’s agents had left quietly the evening before. The Chargers and their chief had been sent to investigate trouble in some place named ‘the Fallow Mire’, which Samhal was happy to give a pass, and he’d last seen Sera sleepily sprawled across three chairs in the tavern the night before. She had expressed her disinclination to mingle with that many mages in no uncertain terms, which he didn’t take personally. He wasn’t enthused about it himself.

First Enchanter Vivienne was going, of course, as was Cassandra. Leliana had suggested bringing the Warden, Blackwall, whose ability to conscript mages might serve as a backup to other forms of diplomacy, and he had agreed, though he had not looked best pleased. Varric had invited himself along on the grounds that “this is sure to be a lively story one way or another”, and Samhal had privately demanded that Solas come. They were all out now, slogging through dirty snow as the horses’ breath clouded the air.

“I’m going with you.”

Samhal spun to find Ilen scratching his horse’s withers, pack and bow on his back.

“The fuck you are.”

“I am. You don’t have to talk to me. You don’t have to look at me. But I’m coming.”

“You’re going to fuck it up for me, more like. Go home. Your wife is waiting for you. You don’t belong here.”

“I’m going. This lot will leave a trail that won’t go cold ‘til the next storm. If you want to stop me, you’ll have to lock me in one of your shem cages. Will you, then?”

Samhal swung lightly up into the saddle and looked down at Ilen.

“Just stay out of my way.”

………………….

 

At last, all the bags and all the buckles were checked, all the supplies staged. Cullen gave last instructions to his captain, and then walked to the head of the column, where he said farewell to Cassandra and nodded to Varric and Vivienne, who received the gesture as though it had been a bow. Lastly, he stood by Samhal’s stirrup to speak quietly.

“I don’t trust this offer, you know that. Please be careful. And for the Maker’s sake, if you go into Redcliffe Castle, I can’t get you out. It’s all but invulnerable to attack. Keep them on neutral territory.”

“Yes, Father. I do remember you may have mentioned a time or five.”

Cullen sighed and stepped back. The gates were opened, and Samhal led the way out. 

Before the next bend in the road, Samhal glanced over his shoulder to say something to Varric, and was arrested by the sight of the rest of the procession spooling out behind him until it disappeared through the gates of Haven. Templars and mages, porters, grooms, scouts. The First Enchanter of Montsimmard, the Hero of Orlais, renowned liar Varric Tethras, a Grey Warden wrapped in half-whispered legends. Elves and humans and a small cluster of dwarves, holding themselves slightly separate.

“Never seen anything like that, and never expected to.”

Samhal jerked his eyes away to look at Varric, who must have noticed him staring.

“And them all not killing each other and all. Might be a first in all of Thedas, you know. If you could get people to do that in Kirkwall, I’d call it a miracle.”

_Your people_

Samhal stared a moment longer and then turned back to the east and Redcliffe, smacking his heels against the bay’s sides. Time to get this over with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Passages from the Chant of Light are taken from the Canticle of Exaltations, which was published in World of Thedas 2. Basically, it's prophecy put down by Emperor Drakon, which appears in several particulars to be talking about in-game events, including the Breach. Full text here: http://emmadirthera.tumblr.com/post/137238812299/the-chant-of-light-preludium-1-lady-of


	35. Chapter 35

“Maybe Antiva City. Maybe Llomeryn, Treviso, I don’t know. I’ll look around, hit the bathhouses, find someone rich and lonely, someone with a handful of servants and dwarf-made plumbing and a balcony that overlooks the ocean. That near Rivain, I won’t stand out. Nobody’ll think this particular tattooed elf is anyone special. All Leliana’s got to do is let me go with a little change in my pockets and a nicely-cut jerkin; I’ll do the rest.”

It was a rare private moment on the road to Redcliffe--the larger the Inquisition grew, the more precious these moments in which Samhal found himself unwatched became.

Varric’s stubble threw the firelight back gleaming copper as he shifted. “You won’t miss doing magic?” 

Samhal scoffed. “Do _you_? Nah, I miss sensible things, like being clean. I’m a simple man, really.” Varric snorted disbelievingly. “I am! I like a soft bed and a nice dinner, what’s complicated about that?” He paused, staring unseeing at the shifting glow of the embers. “I’ll dance again. Haven’t danced in months.”

Varric hummed in acknowledgment, scratching his chin. Samhal sat back and stretched. “What about you, Varric? Are you going to stick around after the Breach is sealed?”

“Depends, I guess. Got a lot of projects simmering in Kirkwall, lot of work still to do there. But this red lyrium thing, I don’t know.”

“Your funeral. I’m out. Mark’s tied to the Breach--maybe it just goes away once we close it, who knows.”

“You don’t care if the mages win their freedom?”

“Of course I care, but it’s not as if _I_ have the solution. I’m not even sure I really understand the problems. I’m giving them a chance to save the world from the big scary sky hole, aren’t I? If they can’t make gains with that, it’s not on my head.”

…………………

The first signs of trouble showed up at the Crossroads. Things had been going fairly well there--many people returned to their homes, or at least the homes of friends and relatives, watch towers built and manned, and a reduction in bandit activity. Fereldan troops had gotten through with grain shipments. But roughly two weeks ago, a small but angry group of fresh refugees had shown up from, of all the places that should have been safe, Redcliffe Castle. They could find no one who seemed clear on what was happening, but apparently a substantial force from _Tevinter_ had arrived at the Castle, summarily evicted the Arl and his people, and taken control of Redcliffe. The Arl and those of his knights who had been with him had headed straight for Denerim. Some of the castle’s people had chosen to stay with relatives in Redcliffe, and these few waited here, out of the immediate reach of the strange and frightening Tevinter troops.

“But what can it mean? Tevinters, here, so far into Ferelden?” Cassandra paced anxiously.

Vivienne watched her, sitting primly on a low wall as though it had been a throne. “The proper question is what has made them so confident. What they’ve done is tantamount to a declaration of war against Ferelden. One wonders if they have the Archon’s support. Perhaps they think to steal a march while Orlais is distracted by civil war and Ferelden torn by the Breach and rebellious mages.”

“The Breach.” Varric, elbows on his knees, glanced meaningfully up at Cassandra, who stopped in her pacing.

“You believe Tevinter could be behind the explosion? I had not considered…”

“Surely their attention is held by the Qunari?” asked Solas.

“The whole thing is terribly strange.” Cassandra made a disgusted noise and turned to Samhal. “What say you? We will follow your lead.”

“Best way to learn about someone is walk up and ask them, isn’t it? I’m not fucking around any more, and I’m not going back to Haven without mages.”

………………………....

The second sign of trouble was the rift outside the gates of Redcliffe. The rifts were always dangerous and a bit unpredictable, but none of them had _distorted time_ before. At one point, Cassandra appeared for a few seconds to be fighting at inhuman speeds, and at another Blackwall was trapped in a bubble that made it look as though he was moving through water, slow and laborious. Samhal stayed well clear--just watching made him feel slightly nauseous, closing the rift doubly so. He was grateful for Solas’ steadying hand between his shoulderblades as he recovered.

They passed through the gates into Redcliffe warily. Before they reached the town proper, they were met by an Inquisition scout, who must have been set to wait for them.

“Your Worship, Seeker--greetings. We’ve spread word that the Inquisition was coming, as ordered, but you should know that no one seems to have been expecting us.”

Cassandra furrowed her eyebrows. “We were invited by the Grand Enchanter herself. Why would she not spread word? And what is this we hear about Tevinter usurpers?”

The scout began to reply, but was interrupted by the bustling arrival of an elf in odd, feathered mage robes.

“Agents of the Inquisition, my apologies! Magister Alexius is in charge now, but hasn’t yet arrived from the castle. He’s expected shortly. You can speak with the former Grand Enchanter in the meantime.”

Cassandra and Vivienne spoke at once. 

“ _Magister_ Alexius?” Cassandra rapped. 

“ _Former_ Grand Enchanter?” Vivienne responded.

The elf only bowed mutely and indicated with a gesture that they should follow him. 

A Magister? Here, in the heart of Ferelden? How? Why? Why _now_ , Dread Wolf take it? Samhal’s mind summoned up a dozen leering caricatures of the powerful mages who ruled Tevinter on the backs of their mostly elven slaves. The party exchanged troubled looks, but followed.

Walking through Redcliffe was a deeply strange experience for Samhal, who immediately began recognizing things he had encountered in the Fade with Solas. Everything that had been darkness slashed with ruddy firelight, overrun with undead, was now bathed in sunshine. He kept glancing back at Solas, wondering how much of the world carried this strange sense of displacement and deja vu for the other man. It mixed unpleasantly with his jangling nerves at the prospect of squaring off against a Magister.

There was the mill by which he had stood as the Hero of Ferelden fought, laughing in the firelight. There was the lake out of which undead had dragged themselves, no longer inky, but spreading into the far distance, glittering in the sunlight. The damage of ten years before had been repaired, the roofs all neatly thatched, the makeshift barriers gone--but despite clear skies, the people bore themselves with an air of tense expectancy. He wondered how many of these people he’d seen fight for their lives. How many had lost fathers or brothers or sisters. Now they watched to see if they would lose again.

The robed elf led the way to a rambling building marked as the Gull and Lantern by the swinging sign over its central door. As they approached their destination, Samhal and the others held a hushed conference. Varric and Solas quietly peeled off from the rest of the party to wander the town and gather what information they could from unofficial sources. Ilen was invisible, as he had been--true to his word--for most of the journey. The small contingent of soldiers they had brought stood at parade rest outside of the inn, leaving Blackwall, Cassandra, Vivienne, and Samhal to meet with Fiona and the mysterious Magister.

The hush inside the tavern set Samhal’s teeth even more on edge. People in travel-worn robes watched them warily from chairs and corners. 

“Welcome, Agents of the Inquisition.”

“Grand Enchanter Fiona. Glad to see you made the journey from Val Royeaux safely.” Samhal slid on a smile and extended his hand in welcome.

“Val Royeaux? I haven’t been to Val Royeaux since before the Conclave.”

Samhal exchanged a disbelieving glance with Cassandra. “We spoke to you there hardly two weeks ago. You invited us to speak to you here.”

“You must be mistaken.”

“Impossible”, Cassandra burst out. “I saw you with my own eyes. What game is this?”

“Fiona, dear, your dementia is showing,” drawled Vivienne. “We _spoke_. You knew me. What can you possibly hope to gain from such a transparent untruth?”

“This is very strange. I am speaking the truth as I know it, yet--I suppose it could be magic at work, but why would anyone--” Fiona broke off, shaking her head slightly. “Later. Whoever--or whatever--brought you here, the situation has changed. The free mages have already...pledged themselves to the service of the Tevinter Imperium.”

Fiona finished heavily. “As one indentured to a Magister, I no longer have the authority to negotiate with you.”

“Indentured?” Samhal asked, voice rising with incredulity. “I thought you fought to be _free_ ”

“All hope of peace died with Justinia. This...bargain with Tevinter would not have been my first choice, but we _had no choice_. We are losing this war. I needed to save as many of my people as I could.”

Light cut across the floor as the tavern door opened again, and a broad figure blocked the sun for a moment, outline strangely spiked. As the man stepped through the door, Samhal recognized it as Tevinter garb, which he had seen from time to time in the Free Marches.

“Welcome, my friends! I apologize for not greeting you earlier.” The man’s voice was gently inflected and surprisingly warm, the voice of a man comfortably at home.

“Agents of the Inquisition, allow me to introduce Magister Gereon Alexius.” Fiona stepped back to cede the floor to the Magister and a second, younger man who followed behind him.

“Magister.” Drawing on every scene of fencing political rivals he’d ever seen played out behind the high walls of Tantervale, Samhal nodded coolly. Mimicking Vivienne beside him, he held his body straight but relaxed, reminding himself again of the powerful people at his back. “We’ve not met. It remains to be seen if we can be friends.”

Alexius smiled slightly. “Very well, then. The southern mages are under my command. And you are the survivor, yes? The one from the Fade? Interesting!”

“Interesting, yes” Samhal echoed, delicately sarcastic. “There are at least two mages present who would dispute your claim, don’t you think, Madame de Fer?”

“Oh, indeed. I do not recall making any such bargain. I _hope_ you are not relying on Fiona’s tenuous authority to establish the legality of your claim--Alexius, was it?”

Samhal hummed thoughtfully. “Speaking of authority, I’m curious. On whose authority does a Tevinter Magister eject the Arl of Redcliffe from his own castle? If I contact King Alistair, how might he respond to the news? What about the Archon?”

The Magister’s face stayed disconcertingly serene. “I expect his Majesty will hear of it soon, if he has not yet. Eject is such a cruel word, though. The Arl of Redcliffe _left_ the village.”

“Arl Teagan did not abandon his lands during the Blight, even when they were under siege. I cannot believe he would willingly do so now. His people do not believe it,” Cassandra cut in angrily.

“There were...tensions growing. I did not want an incident.”

Samhal scoffed. “You _are_ an incident. You can’t possibly expect Ferelden to allow this.”

“Then I hope we will be able to come to an understanding. Just as I hope you and I will understand each other in time. In the meantime, the fact remains--I am in control of Redcliffe, and I am in control of the mages.”

“If you like, then. I’ll be blunt. We’ve come in search of mages to help us close the Breach. You’re here, and so you’re willing to deal. What is it that you want?”

“It is always a pleasure to meet a reasonable man.”

Alexius gestured to a table nearby and moved to take a seat. Exchanging a quick look with Vivienne, Samhal moved to the seat facing the Magister, and as previously arranged, Vivienne seated herself beside him, Cassandra and Blackwall standing close behind. Blackwall had protested when the presentation was first explained to him, but played his part now stolidly enough. 

As he settled, Alexius turned to the younger man. “Felix, would you send for a scribe, please? Pardon my manners--my son, Felix.”

Pointedly failing to look at Felix, Samhal instead gestured at Vivienne. “Vivienne de Fer, First Enchanter of Montsimmard and Court Enchanter to Empress Celene, here on behalf of the Loyalist mages. Warden Blackwall, and Cassandra Pentaghast, Right Hand of Divine Justinia and Hero of Orlais. And I am Samhal Lavellan--as you say, the survivor.”

“I confess, I find you more well-spoken than I expected when I heard that the survivor was a Dalish elf.”

“If that was intended as a compliment, you might want to reconsider. But yes, many Dalish elves would sooner gut you than sit with you. Time will tell if I am wiser or only slower.”

“I meant no offense. I am not surprised that you’re here. Containing the Breach is not a feat that many could even attempt. There is no telling how many mages would be needed for such an endeavor. Ambitious indeed.”

“Ambitious? Necessary, surely.”

Alexius leaned forward. “There will have to be--” He broke off suddenly, looking to his right. Following his gaze, Samhal spotted his son Felix, lurching towards them drunkenly. Samhal clearly forgotten, the Magister began to rise from his seat. Blackwall beat him to it, catching the younger man just as his legs went out from under him.

Felix leaned heavily against Blackwall for a moment. Softly, he said, “my lord, please forgive me.”

Alexius was at his son’s side hardly a second later. “Are you alright?” All of his poise was washed away, his face anxious. 

“I’m fine, Father, really.”

“Come, I’ll get your powders. Please excuse me, friends. We will have to continue this another time.” 

Samhal shot out of his chair. “Excuse me?! We’re not finished here! I didn’t ride all this way for my health; I need mages! Surely your son can take a seat for a few minutes!”

“My son is ill! Your mission can wait if it must.”

“ _My_ mission? Why is everyone else in this Void-cursed world too fu--too busy to help _fix the hole in the sky_? Twenty--give me twenty mages, just twenty!”

“And what surety will you offer of their safe return? No, I am sorry, but I cannot in good conscience continue to allow you Southerners control over mages. My son is my priority. I will be happy to conclude this business later. Fiona, I require your assistance back at the castle.”

“I _am_ a mage, I’m not going to--”. But Alexius was out the door and gone. “ _Fuck_.”

As the door closed behind Felix, Vivienne gave a tinkling laugh. “Well, wasn’t that bracing? Such a doting father.”

Blackwall cleared his throat awkwardly. “Ah--this is meant for you, I expect.” He held out a scrap of paper. “The son slipped it to me when he fell.”

Samhal snatched the note and scanned it silently. _‘Come to the Chantry. You are in danger.’_

“Can someone please tell me why nothing can ever, ever just be simple?”


	36. Chapter 36

After the tavern, everyone had reconvened and discussed the new developments in low tones. Samhal had cast the deciding vote in favor of speed and directness, and now he found himself facing the iron-bound doors of the Redcliffe Chantry. 

Samhal stood and contemplated the heavy oak doors for a moment.

“Heralds first.” Varric made a sweeping gesture.

“Lucky me.”

The sounds of combat were audible as soon as the door cracked open, and the party rushed in to see a rift in the center of the nave, and below it a lone man fighting off two demons, wielding a mage’s staff like a quarterstaff. Moments later the second demon fell, and the man turned to them, slightly out of breath.

“Good! You’re finally here! Now help me close this, would you?”

Before Samhal could act on the suggestion or even fully process the strange apparition, more demons materialized, and the fight was on.

It was a difficult rift. At the same time as it seemed to have drawn some fairly powerful spirits to their doom, it also warped and twisted time like the one outside the gates had done. Samhal managed to avoid the bubbles of altered time himself by staying well back, but found them terrifying. Everyone had to stay lively to keep out of harm’s way, and Samhal noted Vivienne’s impressive power gratefully. The newcomer also fought with showy skill, and for a while the stone walls and columns of the Chantry crackled and roared with magic.

At last, there was a moment of quiet, and Samhal took the opportunity to rush in and wrench at the rift with his marked hand. Like the first time-distorting rift, this one squirmed in his gut and set his heart thundering in his chest, plucking horridly at his sense of reality. 

As he worked to bring his breathing back under control, he studied the newcomer from under lowered lashes. Black hair that was somehow neat even after the fighting, russet-brown skin, a ridiculous little moustache that curled up at the ends, and entirely too many buckles. Another damned Tevinter, probably.

“Fascinating! How does that work, exactly? You don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers, and then, boom! Rift closes!” The stranger peered intently at the fading Mark on Samhal’s hand.

“Well by all means, if you figure it out, let me know, Serah…?”

“Dorian, of House Pavus. Most recently of Minrathous.” Dorian paused, cocking his head curiously at Samhal. “Are you quite alright?” 

“I’m fine. Just wiggling my fingers, after all.”

“...Ah,” Dorian said, slightly nonplussed. “And you’re the one they’re calling the Herald. Fascinating,” he repeated. “At any rate, I was about to say that Magister Alexius was once my mentor, so my assistance should be valuable, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“And what exactly are you assisting us with?” 

Dorian hesitated for an almost invisible second before plunging on. “Look, you must know there’s danger. That should be obvious without my telling you. Let’s start with Alexius claiming the allegiance of the rebel mages out from under you. As if by magic, yes? Which is exactly right. To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself.”

“Impossible,” Vivienne said. “No one has ever performed successful time magic.”

“Never until now, perhaps. The rift you closed here? You saw how it twisted time around itself--sped some things up and slowed others down. Soon, there will be more like it, and they’ll appear further and further away from Redcliffe. The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable--and it is unravelling the world.”

Everyone digested this silently. 

“Well, shit,” Varric said at last.

“Alright,” Samhal said, “setting aside for the moment that we have only your word for it and no reason to trust you, how do you know this, and what do you intend to do to help?”

“I helped Alexius develop this magic.” A delicate snort of disgust from Vivienne interrupted him, and he continued in a slightly defensive tone. “When I was still his apprentice, it was pure theory. Alexius could never get it to work. Obviously something has changed since I left.” His tone shifted, caught up in the problem. “What I don’t understand is why he’s doing it. Ripping time to shreds just to gain a few hundred lackeys?”

“He didn’t do it for them.”

The new voice came from behind them, and Samhal turned sharply to see the Magister’s son, Felix. 

“Took you long enough!” Samhal thought he detected relief under Dorian’s imperious words. “Is he getting suspicious?”

“No, but I shouldn’t have played the illness card. I thought he’d be fussing over me all day.” Felix turned to Samhal. “Sorry to make you wait, but it’s very important you hear what we have to say. My father’s joined a cult. Tevinter supremacists. They call themselves ‘Venatori’. And I can tell you one thing: whatever he’s done for them, he’s done it to get to you.”

“ _Me?_ What? Why?!”

“The Venatori are obsessed with you! But I don’t know why. Perhaps because you survived the Temple of Sacred Ashes?”

A steady stream of expletives ran through Samhal’s head. “Well, has anyone thought to just ask? You’re his son, he obviously cares about you a great deal. Why am I meant to believe that you’re here sneaking behind his back?”

Felix sighed, fatigue showing in his face. “He won’t tell me. All he’ll say is that it will all have been worth it in the end. I...I love my father, and I love my country, but cults? Time magic? It’s too dangerous. I don’t see how anything could be worth this. For his own sake, you _have_ to stop him.”

“For your sake as well, I should think,” Dorian scoffed. “On the bright side, you know you’re his target. Expecting the trap is the first step in turning it to your advantage. And you’ve got me!” This last was delivered as if somehow that solved everything.

Felix cleared his throat. “I have to get back before my father misses me. I’m sorry for all this; I’ll do what I can to help. Keep yourself safe, Dorian.”

“Nonsense, I’m always fine. Worry about yourself--and try not to get yourself killed because you just had to be noble.”

“There are worse things than death, Dorian.” Felix smiled gently at them all and slipped out a side door.

Dorian turned back to Samhal and smiled dazzlingly. “Well! Bit of a mess, this.”

Samhal’s return smile was more toothy than genial.

…………………...

 

“The question is, do you trust him?”

They had reassembled in the semi-privacy of the copse of woods behind the Chantry, clustered with their heads together. Dorian stood a little distance away, cleaning his staff and watching them with elaborate disinterest.

“That’s a fucking terrible question, Varric. I don’t trust _you_. I only trust Cassandra because I’m fairly sure she’s physically incapable of lying. Of course I don’t trust him.”

“Fair cop on all counts. Let me rephrase--do you think we’re better off working on his information or not?”

Cassandra, wisely ignoring Samhal’s gibe, said, “He risked himself bravely enough to counter the demons at the rift. Surely that is a sign of good intent?”

“I’d take it as a sign of idiocy, actually. What was he going to do if we didn’t show up in time, die nobly? No, if anything he waited ‘til he saw us coming and then rushed in to make a proper entrance. He seems the type that’s used to being announced. But he’s right about the rifts; they’re...ugh. And there’s certainly something going on. Fiona really didn’t remember me, I’m sure of it. So either someone’s tinkered with her mind, which is totally possible or, if Dorian and Felix are to be believed, this...what, this version of Fiona never made it to Val Royeaux? But we still saw...fucking Void, this time thing is making me queasy.”

“If what they say is true, it is perhaps an even greater danger than the Breach,” Cassandra said. “I have no great love for Tevinter, but surely the risk in doubting him and being wrong is greater than in trusting him and being wrong.”

“Seeker’s got a point. And if he’s lying, the game’s too confusing for me. If he’s an agent of Alexius, I can’t imagine what they’re trying to accomplish by putting us even more on our guard.”

“He is not lying about the rifts,” Solas said. “The Veil is weak in this place already, and these rifts tear at the fabric of the world. He may very well be correct--every time this magic is used, it risks cascading in a way that even your Mark will not control.”

Samhal scrubbed his hands over his face roughly. “Shit. Fine. _Fine._ So what’s next, Boss Lady?”

“We must confront this Magister. Perhaps he does not understand the danger he is creating, or perhaps if we can give him what he wants he will be content.” 

“Unless what he wants is me.”

“Of course we would not agree to such a condition,” said Cassandra. “We will send word that we wish to meet in the tavern again, then. He can have no truly good reason for refusal, if his intentions are good.”

“Well, what the fuck?” Samhal stood up and raised his voice. “Madame de Fer? Would you be so kind as to help me write a very pretty letter?”

………………

_”Serah Lavellan--_

_Your invitation was most polite, and I do look forward to coming to an understanding. I was very impressed with your wit and passion for your cause. I quite see why people have chosen to follow you._

_I could not think of imposing on you or the townspeople again in these difficult times, however. Please, you must allow me to entertain you as befits your importance, which I can do best here in the castle. Come as soon as you may--I am eager to conclude our business.”_

Samhal eyed the letter in Cassandra’s hand with dark humor. “Well, that’s not at all suspicious. Can’t a fellow want to celebrate my magnificence properly without being a world-destroying Tevinter fanatic? We should go right now! I hope there’s mulled wine!”

“Yes, he might have overplayed his hand just a touch,” said Dorian. “All it lacks is a whiff of Attar of Roses and a heart with your initials, really.”

“Well, Fox, the trick with traps of any sort is to know a way out that your hunter doesn’t know you can take.”

“And since you’re the trap expert, I suppose you have a way out? Because if I go into that castle and get thrown in a cell, Cullen will come fish me out just to hang me himself.” Samhal raised an expectant eyebrow at Varric as he tucked the letter away in his sash.

“Have faith! As it happens, I just might. Have any of you heard about the siege of Redcliffe by undead during the Fifth Blight?”

“I have,” said Samhal, suddenly alert. The others shook their heads; Dorian arched neat eyebrows in interest.

“Only a very little,” Cassandra said.

“Well, short version, Arl Eamon’s son was possessed by a demon, which took control of the castle and sent undead pouring out into the town. The Hero of Ferelden, and the future king with him, liberated the castle and stopped the undead. Ask me later, and I’ll give you the long version, which I got off King Alistair himself.”

Cassandra spluttered. “You know the king of Ferelden?” Dorian blinked at Varric as if he was really noticing him for the first time.

Varric nodded, one corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Yeah, we spent some time together. That’s a story too, but mostly not mine to tell.”

“Is there anyone in Thedas you _don’t_ know, dwarf?”

“If there is, I haven’t met ‘em. Do you want me to go on or not?”

Varric scowled at Cassandra for a moment before continuing. “Well, there was only the Warden, Alistair, and a handful of others, so a frontal assault was out of the question. Alistair told me that they snuck in through a secret passage that runs under the lake, starting somewhere in the castle, and comes out right here in Redcliffe.”

“I’m not surprised,” Samhal said. “But unless he told you in excruciating detail how to find this passage, I don’t see…”

Varric smiled smugly. “Well no. He did not, and I don’t know. But I know someone who probably does--and he’s right here in Redcliffe. That selfsame Arl Eamon’s son who started the trouble--Connor Guerrin.”

…

Connor, disgraced scion of the Guerrin family, turned out to be a broad-shouldered young man, with auburn hair and the pale, ruddy sort of complexion that would probably have freckled heavily if his life had involved more sun. Unlike most of the mages, he wore a simple grey Fereldan tunic and unadorned pants. As he came into Samhal’s room in the tavern, Samhal recognized in his face the kind of wary bitterness that has learned to expect nothing good from change.

The door closed behind the scout, leaving only Samhal, Connor, and Cassandra, and muting the sounds of the common room below. Samhal considered Connor, remembering what Josie had told him of Ferelden nobility, what he knew of Connor’s past. Direct and honest, then. Well, within reason.

“Connor Guerrin? My name is Samhal Lavellan. Some people call me the Herald of Andraste. Others call me the survivor, or worse things I guess. Have you heard of me?”

“I have. Also that you killed mages in the Hinterlands.”

Direct and honest, indeed. “True. Those who attacked me. Templars as well. Unlike the templars, however, I did manage to make common cause with several of the mages, and they’ve been safe with the Inquisition since. Some of them are here and willing to give evidence of their treatment. Would you like to speak to them?”

“Why? Why me? Why am I here? I represent no one. I have no power. You must know that I’m no Arl’s son now--only a mage.”

“And I’m only an apostate and an elf. The rules are broken and the people in charge of enforcing them flipped everyone the bird, in case you hadn’t heard. But while I did ask you here because you’re the former Arl’s son, it’s not actually your theoretical political power I’m interested in.”

“If you know who I am, you must know what I’ve done. I shouldn’t be here at all--the boy with Redcliffe’s blood on his hands. I’m the worst person you could turn to for help.”

“I’ll decide that for myself, thanks. And yes, I do know what you did. Cassandra, sit down. You’re making him nervous.”

“I? I’ve done nothing.”

“You’re looming, Cassandra. You’re scary.” Cassandra grunted disgustedly and sat. “Actually, let’s all sit. Come on, sit, I’ve got tea.”

Eyeing Cassandra and Samhal cautiously, Connor joined them at the small table and accepted a redware mug of tea.

“Tell me, Connor, how do the mages feel about their indenture to Tevinter? Go ahead--there’s not a right or wrong answer, here. I actually do want to know.”

“Well…” Connor took a sip of tea and cleared his throat. “Some people are angry. They feel trapped. No one asked us--we didn’t sign off on the decision. A lot are just frightened and don’t know what to think. The ‘Vints are secretive--people disappear. A lot of Tranquil disappeared. There are places we’re not allowed to go in the castle. A lot of people don’t trust the Magister or his people. But...some people are glad. They think that they’ll be respected in Tevinter, that they’ll have power. They feel it’s their right”

“And you? What do you think?”

Connor didn’t hesitate. “It’s a disaster. It’s wrong, what they do in Tevinter. We _are_ monsters. We need to be controlled. If it wasn’t for me, every family in this village wouldn’t be missing a son, a daughter, a spouse. There, they run unchecked. That Magister threw my uncle out into the street. He signed us into servitude! _This is my home!_ Ferelden; Redcliffe--no matter what evils I’ve done I would never have invited Tevinter here.” By the end of his speech, Connor’s voice was shaking with the intensity of his emotion and he was leaning forward across the table as if he could press his point into Samhal by main force. “If we weren’t hated before, bringing Tevinter here will rob us of any support we might have had.”

Connor couldn’t be above, what, twenty one? But then, Samhal thought, once upon a time he had been raised to lead. In a different world, he would not be so far off stepping up as Arl himself. He might have spent the last decade in a tower, but it was achingly obvious where his heart belonged. 

Samhal made a decision.

“I was wrong, Cassandra. There is a right answer, and that was it.” He took a sip of tea to steady himself--part of him wanted an out, wanted the answer to the next question to be ‘no’ so that the plan would fall apart.

“Alright, Connor Guerrin. Say I agree with you. I want Alexius out of that castle. I don’t want the mages spirited off to Tevinter, or dead, or even locked up in the castle. But to accomplish that, I need to know what Alexius really wants. I’m told that that’s me, for some reason, which is another thing I don’t want. So I can get _in_ to the castle easily--I have a signed invitation. What I need is a way Alexius doesn’t expect to get _out_ , in case he doesn’t feel like saying goodbye at the end of the night. And a little dwarf told me that you might know a way out.” Samhal paused, watching Connor closely. “Do you know the entrance to the secret passage under the lake?”

Connor considered him through hazel-brown eyes. “Yes. Yes, I do, but it will do you no good. It’s in the sublevels, far from the great hall and living chambers where Alexius would see you. There are too many soldiers in there. Do you think my uncle went because they asked politely? There are dozens, more since Teagan left. And some of the mages are likely to help them.”

“And if some of the mages can be persuaded to help us?” Cassandra cut in.

“Some, yes. Most are too afraid or uncertain. What you’re talking is blood and fire, a running fight maybe. If Alexius really wants you, I wouldn’t risk it like that.”

Samhal exchanged a long look with Cassandra, and she reached out and rested a hand on his arm in an unaccustomed gesture of support. “We can send to Haven. Cullen will bring our troops, perhaps we can cut him off…”

“Can we? Dorian and Solas make it sound like every minute counts.” Samhal snorted, caught off guard by his own words. “So to speak.”

“There’s another option,” said Connor.

He didn’t flinch at their sudden attention. “The Fereldan army--as much as they can manage on short notice these days, anyway--will be here soon. It must be. Teagan will have gone straight for Denerim. They can’t let Tevinter hold Redcliffe unchallenged; they might as well sign the country over. They can’t take it, either, not in a straight siege. They know that. Redcliffe Castle can be held against far greater imbalances than this. I’m sure Uncle Teagan’s hoping to parlay, but I don’t know that that will work either.”

“Maybe the Magister will make a deal; I don’t know what he wants. But I wouldn’t count on it, and I don’t think you are either. If you’re going in to try, more power to you, but if talking fails, maybe the castle can be taken from the inside and outside at once.”

Samhal sat up straighter. “Sneak troops through the secret passage while I draw the focus?”

“And they can clear your escape route and open the gates. You pull the troops inward and upward, present as the obvious threat. Then Teagan has a chance. Maybe.”

“And the mages?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Connor shrugged--a broad, grey Fereldan rock, suspicious of hope.

………………....

After he dismissed Connor, Samhal sat silent and blank, tea grown cold in his hand. Cassandra rose and paced, and Samhal watched her jaw flex and tense as thoughts flickered across her face.

“Cassandra, why do you do this? I mean, why me? Why not lead yourself? You must see I have no qualifications for this job.”

“Must I? I do not see any such thing. I am hard, and rough--I know it. I have no talent for swaying the minds of men as you do. We have...had our disagreements. I have been wrong. You as well, I think. But it is you who have brought us this far. Perhaps you are right, and we will all be held traitors some day. If so, that will rest on my shoulders, but someone has to act.”

“Do you believe I’m the Herald of Andraste? You know I don’t.”

“If you are the Herald, your belief one way or the other matters little to the Maker. I believe that you were sent to help us. I hope so. I am learning to have faith in your heart and mind, regardless of your mouth.”

Samhal’s cheeks felt suddenly hot. “Gross, Boss Lady. Gross. Forget I asked.”

Cassandra actually smiled slightly before resuming her pacing. Samhal lapsed back into silence, thinking hard. At last he put down his cup and straightened his shoulders.

“Cassandra? Please find Solas. Tell him to bring Liesl and the other mages from the Witchwood. He’ll guard me--they’ll be more comfortable without you.”

Cassandra snorted quietly. “You see? What was the word you chose? I loom.”

……………………....

Solas brought Liesl and the two other mages who had accompanied her from Haven and then retreated quietly to the window while Samhal stood to greet the mages.

“Alright, I assume you’ve heard that things aren’t quite what we expected when we left Haven. The rebel mages here have indentured themselves to Magister Gereon Alexius of Tevinter. As far as we can figure, that means that when they get to Tevinter, they’ll be obligated to serve Alexius as he sees fit, and after that they’ll be free to--well, to I don’t know what. I don’t trust him any further than I could kick him, but that’s me.”

Liesl watched his face intently; the other mages showed signs of uncertainty. Samhal pinched his lips closed on his doubts and went on.

“Now, I know what I’m going to do--I’m going to try to get the mages away from him. What you choose to do, that’s up to you. Maybe you like the sounds of his deal. The mages are still allowed to move in and out of the castle for now--you could join them, keep your heads down, and I don’t think anyone would notice. Or you could stay here. Or--and I know I’m asking a lot--you could join them and help us. Tell them that we want to help them. Tell them that you’ve been treated well by the Inquisition. Tell them it’s led by an apostate. Tell them it’s _not_ a tool of the Chantry. Suggest that they question why a Tevinter Magister went to so much trouble and risked so much now, when they never did before. Tell them I’m coming, and that when I come, they’ll have a choice--just as you do now. Tell them quietly, and carefully, because you’ll be on your own. You don’t have to--”

“I’ll go,” Liesl said.

“It’s a risk.”

“I know.” Liesl grinned crookedly. “You put your ass on the line to save me from myself once. I can tell you’re about to do it again, and I want to do the same. Besides--I’ve seen it. It’s an ass worth following.”

One of the other mages snorted and quickly covered his mouth. Samhal grinned broadly, but something tightened in his chest.

“If looking fantastic naked is an important qualification for leadership, then you’re on the right team, it’s true. But you don’t have to--you have to know it’s dangerous.”

“It’s our fight too,” said the mage who had laughed. “I’ve been talking to a few of the mages already--they were desperate. They thought the templars were days away. They didn’t really want _this_ , they just wanted to live. I’m in.”

“Me as well,” said the third. “Tevinter can kiss my elven rear. I’m not going anywhere to be ‘indentured’ to a Magister.”

Liesl held out her hand. “We’re yours, Herald. Don’t doubt it.”

Samhal thought his smile felt strained as he took her hand, but no one seemed to notice.

………………………

“I can’t do this, Solas.” Samhal slumped over the table, cheek against the scarred wood, arms hanging limply. “This is bullshit. Looking great naked is absolutely not enough to make a good leader.”

“Perhaps not, but a pleasing appearance is a not inconsiderable asset to a man who would sway the minds of others, in my observation.”

“Yes, me and my _assets_ ,” Samhal mumbled into the table. “Be serious. Solas, I thought being a hero was supposed to be about saving people’s lives, not risking them.”

“Would that the world were as simple as the tales we tell by the fire.”

“I hate it. I fucking hate this, have I mentioned? I don’t know shit about armies or castles, I don’t think I even understand this indenture thing, I don’t know what I’m going to do once I get in there, and I’m completely fucking sure I don’t understand this time thing at all. This is the shittiest non-plan ever and it’s the best we’ve got.”

Samhal felt Solas’ hand, cool and calloused, soothe over the back of his neck. He sighed.

“I’m scared, Solas. I just want to mind myself, and let other people mind themselves. Why do people do this?! Why do they just...why do they turn their welfare over to other people? It’s not sane, trusting people like that. Alexius doesn’t deserve that. I don’t deserve that. Nobody deserves that.”

Solas’ hand stilled for a moment. 

“You cannot always offer people a choice. You cannot tell them the truth of the time magic, you know that. The danger in spreading that information is too great. Sometimes only you are in a position to do what must be done.”

“And if I fuck up?”

Samhal heard Solas take a long breath in, but when he raised his head, the other man’s face was shuttered, the corners of his mouth tight.

“Solas? What is it?”

Solas’ face softened as his focus came back to Samhal. 

“Then we try again.”


	37. Chapter 37

They had traveled two days up the road to Denerim before choosing a spot to wait for the Fereldan army that Connor assured them was coming. Connor himself, along with Liesl and the other mages from the Witchwood, waited and worked in Redcliffe Castle. Vivienne, Blackwall, and most of the soldiers they had brought remained in and around the tavern, maintaining the appearance of Inquisition presence, and Dorian was being kept out of sight in an upper room. Samhal and a few others had slipped north under cover of dark. 

Now, he shaded his eyes against a wintery morning sun as he peered up the road. He shifted his feet in annoyance as mucky slush seeped through the seams of his boots and soaked his socks. Connor had said it would take time for Teagan to raise and gather troops, but Samhal was starting to wonder if he and his handful of soldiers were going to be all they had. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

The first sign of the approaching force was the haze of the horses’ breath, catching the low morning rays of the sun and throwing it back golden. Long, watchful minutes passed before the front of the column crested the nearest rise, banners billowing.

“Varric?”

“Yeah, Fox?”

“I don’t think that’s just Arl Teagan.”

Varric squinted against the sun at the central banner, two Mabari rampant on a quartered gold and white field, with a crown over all.

“Well what do you know?”

The man at the head of the column, when he drew nearer, was immediately recognizable as the same man Samhal had seen fighting undead in the Fade, but he was changed, as well. The copper hair that had been cropped short during the Blight was longer now, swept back from his forehead and curling slightly under his ears. A neatly-clipped beard framed a tawny face. He was perhaps a bit heavier than his younger self had been, which only added gravity to the imposing breadth of his shoulders and chest. The biggest difference, though, was in the circles under his eyes, the tired lines around his mouth.

The lines transformed to laugh lines as soon as King Alistair spotted Varric at the side of the road. He reined to a stop, holding up a hand, and commands echoed down the line as the Fereldan army ground to a halt for Samhal’s little group. Great hulking mabari, armored and splashed with stark lines of warpaint, paced confidently between the horses’ hooves.

“Andraste’s knickers, _Varric Tethras_. What in Thedas are you doing here?”

“Bad taste in friends, what else?”

“What, again? Tut tut, Varric.” Alistair’s eyes moved to Samhal, standing next to Varric. Samhal held his head high, more than a little star-struck by the unexpected encounter. “Well, introduce me already!” Alistair swung off his horse, cloak swinging heavily. This near, Samhal had to look well up to meet his eye.

“Your Royal Majesty, it is my singular honor to introduce Samhal Lavellan, the Herald of Andraste.”

Alistair’s hand stopped short of the offered handclasp it had been reaching for, and the king blinked.

“You’re not playing with me, are you?”

“Would I do that?”

Samhal steeled himself and clasped Alistair’s forgotten hand firmly. “Your Majesty.” 

Alistair smiled crookedly and gripped back, massive calloused hand engulfing Samhal’s slim fingers.

“Herald of Andraste! We’ve heard tell of you. Strange thing to find at the side of the road! How did you get saddled with this dwarf? Never mind, I’m sure that’s a story for later. After all”--he sighed and gave Samhal’s hand a final shake before letting go-- “I’m not here on pleasure, and I doubt you are either.”

“This, no. Not my idea of pleasure.” Samhal’s eyes bugged slightly as the words left his mouth. “I mean--cold. It’s cold. I’m sure--I mean, obviously, your country is very lovely.” He gestured a little desperately at the view--a rocky, snow-covered embankment, the churned muck of the road, and a copse of skeletal trees. He cringed inwardly.

Alistair’s eyes twinkled. “Also cold and muddy. Yes, I did notice. Try us again in a month and a half. Now, _please_ tell me you’re here with good news.”

“Ah...it’s...a bit of a mixed bag really.”

……………....

Two days after the meeting on the road, Samhal and his party slipped quietly back into their rooms at the tavern. Alistair and the Fereldan forces waited, hidden, in the hills. Grim-faced hunters and dogs the size of brown bears stalked the forests of their home, searching out Tevinter scouts. Fewer mages showed themselves in Redcliffe, and the only word from their mages was a young man in worn robes who slipped into the tavern palming a note that read only, “Your ass has some fans, but watch it anyway”.

Three days after the meeting on the road, a rift opened in the middle of town. Two people fell to demons before Inquisition forces got there. It was the worst yet, throwing a distorting haze across half a dozen buildings and the space between. Vivienne spent half the battle trapped in a time bubble like a beetle in amber, and came out incandescently furious. Samhal shook quietly for an hour after he closed it. Dorian, who was being kept out of sight, was standing by a window cursing fluidly in Tevene when they came back to the tavern. 

Four days after, Samhal found himself walking across the massive stone bridge to Redcliffe Castle. 

His small guard understood their role as diversion. His strangely-assorted companions were around him. Dorian was with the Fereldan infiltrators, possibly already moving invisibly under the wind-chopped waters of Lake Calenhad. Alistair and Teagan were out of sight in the hills, waiting for the signal that said their people were inside the castle, preparing to open the gate. His allies were in position--or they weren’t--and either way there was nothing to be done about it now.

It wasn’t really like walking to meet his enemy in Val Royeaux, though he’d been afraid it would be. Facing templars filled him with visceral, bone-deep panic he could only hope to survive without humiliating himself. Being afraid of this? Entirely rational. Everyone was; there was nothing isolating in that. Of course, it didn’t help knowing that even if everything went as planned, people who had put their faith in him would die for it within the next hours. And yes, of course, something about time going haywire and the end of the world, but he really didn’t even understand that, didn’t know what it would look like, so it could go in a back corner--for now, and if this worked, forever.

Redcliffe Castle bulked massive and uninviting, filling its island to the edges so that it seemed to grow out of the water. Everything was grey today--grey water reflecting grey sky, the town huddling under last summer’s thatch, dirty snow--everything but the castle itself, red as its name. “There is iron in the hills, as there is in the people,” a hunter had told him, and her face had given the saying credence. Weathered, unadorned, implacable.

They were passed through the main gates and greeted in the outer ward by a captain in angular Tevinter armor. Samhal lacked the experience to see what he would have liked to see about defenses and positions, but he saw Varric’s eyes flickering over walkway and battlement as they moved. The inhuman metal visors worn by the magister’s guards gleamed back at him blankly, reminding him of the baleful half-masks of the Crow bodyguards he had seen from time to time in Tantervale.

They left their own guard behind as they moved into the main keep. Samhal didn’t look back--he’d already studied every stalwart face carefully before they crossed the bridge. Instead, he thought about what it must have been like to grow up here--as Connor had, as Alistair had. Maybe in summer there were plants, hardy weeds and climbing vines, to soften the rough planes and angles of stone. Maybe if you knew about them, there were soft places, kind places, places that fit a child. Maybe not.

At the last turn before the Great Hall, Samhal wobbled. Bravado momentarily fled, he glanced back at the others.

“Chin up, dear. You have him.” Vivienne didn’t smile, but the steel in her eyes bolstered him.

“Don’t sweat it, Fox. Find out his game if you can, but all you really have to do is keep him entertained long enough. Doesn’t matter what you say so long as all eyes are on you.”

 _Keep him entertained_. One corner of his mouth twitched and snuck out into the beginning of a smirk.

“Doesn’t matter what I say, eh?”

Cassandra sighed. “Oh, Varric, why?”

Smiling broadly, Samhal turned and strode forward to face Gereon Alexius.

………....

The Great Hall of Redcliffe Castle was low and firelit, devoid of sunlight even in the middle of the day. Twisting patterns of vine and animal chased along the massive beams of the ceiling, and great snarling wooden dogs framed the chair in which Alexius sat waiting for them. There were, pointedly, no other chairs. The son, Felix, stood behind his father on the dias, and Fiona watched them tensely a little further down the hall.

“My friend!” came the warm, cultured voice of the magister. “It’s so good to see you again! And your...associates, of course. So glad you could join us.”

Samhal studied him, wondering what purpose it served the man to be polite at this point. Could he really mean to bargain? But no--why insist on the castle as a meeting-place then?

“I’m still not your friend. Hello, Fiona. How’s the memory? Well met...uhh...I’m sorry, I seem to have forgotten your son’s name,” Samhal lied cheerfully.

Felix’s face flickered with something that might have been amusement. “Felix Alexius, at your service. I apologize again for interrupting the last meeting.”

“Yes, I hope he won’t be disrupting things again. Are you sure he’s well enough to be here?”

Alexius looked as if he’d eaten an unexpectedly salty pickle. “He is well for the moment. Come now, let’s talk man to man. I’m sure you and I can work out some arrangement that is equitable to all parties.”

“Are we mages to have no say in determining our fate?” Fiona cried, stepping forward.

“Of course you are,” Samhal replied immediately. “We always do, don’t we, magister? We always have at least one choice left.”

Alexius smiled thinly. “How philosophical of you. But to business--the Inquisition needs mages, and I have them. So...what shall you offer in exchange?”

“Sealing the Breach isn’t enough, then?”

“ _Attempting_ to seal the Breach is a very noble goal, of course, but you can’t expect me to risk my wards on such an untested idea without more compensation. But speaking of the Breach, I’m curious...how _did_ you come by that little toy of yours?”

And that...that must be the heart of it. He could see the angle of the man’s head, the narrowing of his eyes, slight but still there. This was, somehow, about the Mark.

“Oh, I thought everyone was talking about it. There was a lady, all shining and white, and she reached out to me in the Fade and touched me, and hey-presto, here we are. That’s how the story goes, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that is one version I heard.”

Just on the edge of hearing, Samhal thought he heard a shout, quickly cut off. Alexius lifted his head, listening.

“You know,” Samhal drawled, raising his voice slightly, “I once knew--and I do mean _knew_ \--a merchant from Qarinus. I’ll be honest, he...came up a little short where it matters. Is that a common problem in Tevinter?”

Alexius’ impressive eyebrows nearly met in the middle as his attention snapped back to Samhal. When he didn’t respond right away, Samhal went on.

“No? Well, maybe someday I’ll have time for a bit more research. At any rate, I first heard from this merchant that, surprise, not all mages in your country are free. He and his buddy thought it would be a wonderful trick to lure a few mages out of their southern towers to ‘freedom’ and then sell them for a heavy profit. His idea of a joke. I suppose he didn’t keep all of his failings in his pants.”

“Deplorable. I regret that my countryman has given such a poor impression. Perhaps we should--”

“It does raise an interesting point, though,” Samhal bulled on. “What guarantee do any of these mages have once they cross the border into Tevinter? After all, I’m told that the reason the indenture is needed is because they have no legal standing.”

“They have my word on my reputation as a Magister!”

“They do, don’t they? Of course, I forgot. Indulge my curiosity, Gereon.” He drew out the magister’s given name lovingly, watching Alexius’ face to see if he drew blood. “Do you keep slaves?”

Alexius struck the arm of his stolen throne with a clenched fist. “Do you know, I think this is quite enough of you needling me. I am wasting my time here.”

“I don’t know what you were trying to accomplish in the first place, actually, and I’d love it if you’d just tell me, really,” spat Samhal, dropping the smile.

“He knows everything, Father,” said Felix.

Alexius rose, turning to his son. “Felix...what have you done?”

“The right thing, Father. Please, stop this.”

“You have no idea what you’re interfering in!” Alexius turned back to Samhal, snarling. “Thief and twice thief! Do you think you can turn my own son against me? You walk into my stronghold with you stolen Mark--a gift you don’t even understand!--and think you’re in control. You’re nothing but a _mistake_.”

“ _Whose mistake?_ Yours? Who caused the explosion!?”

“You sully that Mark just by still existing. It belongs to your betters! You wouldn’t even begin to understand its purpose.”

“ _Tell me!_ ”

“Father, listen to yourself! Do you know what you sound like?” Felix reached for his father’s arm, pleading. Before Alexius could respond, a new voice made Samhal nearly jump out of his skin.

“He sounds exactly like the sort of villainous cliche everyone here expects us to be.”

Dorian’s entrance had all the effect he could have been hoping for. Alexius’ face went slack. Dorian’s footsteps against stone were loud in the silence as he crossed the room and took his place at Samhal’s side. Samhal’s heart raced. Did this mean that the Fereldan scouts were through as well? Would Alexius fight anyway?

“Dorian.”

“Alexius.”

“I gave you a chance to be a part of this. You turned me down.”

“And I’ve never been more glad of it.”

“The Elder One has power you would not believe. He will raise the Imperium from its own ashes! He will make the world bow to mages once more. We will rule from the Boeric Ocean to the Frozen Seas.”

“Elder One?” Samhal managed, feeling at sea himself.

“You can’t involve my people in this madness!” Fiona shouted “None of this was part of our bargain!”

“Alexius, this is exactly what you and I talked about never wanting to happen! Why would you support this now?” Samhal thought he heard a note of pleading in Dorian’s voice.

“Stop this, Father! Give up the Venatori! Let the southern mages fight the Breach, and let’s go home.”

Alexius turned from one speaker to the next like a lion cornered, a strange note of desperation in his face.

“No! Don’t you understand, Felix? It’s the only way. I have to. He can _save_ you!”

“ _Save me?_ ”

“What?” Dorian breathed.

Alexius, stripped of all his polish and composure, looked at his son with anguished eyes. “There is a way. The Elder One promised. If I undo the mistake at the Temple…”

“Father, please. I’m going to die. You need to accept that. I have.”

“I will accept no such thing!” Alexius shouted. “Seize them, Venatori! The Elder One demands this man’s life!”

But the men and women who stepped out into the open from the room’s half-hidden galleries wore the clothing of Fereldan hunters and Inquisition scouts, not Venatori troops. The captain who had led the assault, a gimlet-eyed woman of perhaps fifty, held out her bloody short sword.

“This is not your place, magister. We’re here to see you out.”

“Oops!” Samhal grinned, relief washing over him. “Looks like you ran out of _time_ , Gereon.”

“You,” Alexius snarled, “are a mistake! _You should never have existed_.” An amulet appeared in his hand, glowing the same green as the Mark. 

“No!” Dorian sprang to life instantly, flinging a spell at Alexius. There was a brilliant flash of light, and then...

The shock of it hit Samhal like a giant’s fist. It tore agonizingly at the Mark, ripped at his guts, twisted him around and turned him inside out and all he could hear for a moment was a thundering in his ears, until all at once he was gagging and retching on hands and knees in murky water, tears torn from his eyes.

Somewhere in the background, there was a clatter and shouting. Dorian’s voice shouting “Herald! _Herald!_ ” But that wasn’t his name. Then there was a hand pulling him up, and armed men rushing them, shouting.

He tried. He tried, but everything burned and his eyes were blurred and his muscles would not listen. And Cassandra would have caught the blow, but for some reason Cassandra was not there any more. And Solas would have shielded him, but the gentle brush of the barrier never came. Instead there was a faceless visor and a sword catching red light and a sudden hard impact that drove him to his knees. 

The attacker disappeared with a flurry of purple and a piercing scream. For a minute longer the sounds of fighting filtered through his mind dimly, but Samhal was studying his hand as he moved it, watching it flop strangely as if half the strings had been cut.

Finally, the shouting and the crackle of magic stopped, and a hand landed on his shoulder. 

“Herald?”

And that was when the pain hit.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for injury and some gore.

“No!” Dorian threw himself towards Alexius, working frantically to counter the spell, but it was too late. No one else had even had time to react, faces showing nothing but blank incomprehension, by the time the spell struck. There was a terrible rushing and sucking and spinning, and then everything was still again, and Dorian was reeling with disorientation.

They were no longer in the great hall. Filthy water sloshed around his shins and stone walls pressed close, the ceiling low and soot-stained. Rather more urgently, the Venatori soldiers here were not all dead.

“Herald!” The Herald was on hands and knees, face nearly in the water, and did not respond. Dorian pulled him up, and he staggered drunkenly against Dorian’s shoulder before righting himself. Dorian turned back to the charging soldiers, unslinging his staff. The two men stopped, shifting warily at the sight, until one charged him, the other circling to get at the Herald. He slammed a fireball into his opponent, silently hoping that the Herald had pulled himself together enough.

“Cassand _ra!_ ” It was a shout that broke into a scream midway through, and Dorian turned just in time to watch the second Venatori bring his sword down in an off-balance but still powerful blow, hacking at the juncture between neck and shoulder. Samhal fell to his knees nervelessly, and Dorian slammed a spell into the soldier’s side before he could finish the job.

The fight didn’t last much longer--the soldiers had not been expecting it, and Dorian was, after all, _very_ good. As the second Venatori fell with a last involuntary twitch, Dorian turned and sloshed quickly to the Herald, who was kneeling in red-tinted water, staring blankly at his hands as they drifted in front of him.

“Herald?” He reached out and touched Samhal’s shoulder, and the elf came to life with an agonized cry.

“Oh fuck oh _Creators_ it hurts! It hurts I can’t see what is it?” He ended on a sobbing breath, cradling his right arm with his left.

Dorian’s boots squelched horribly as he shifted around to face Samhal, grimacing as he knelt.

“I’ve very sorry, but I can’t see much.” He kept his voice as even as he could manage. “I’ll need to move your jacket, and I expect it will hurt a very great deal. Are you ready?”

Samhal whimpered, and Dorian knew that he was a grown man, hardly younger than himself, but it was easy to look at this tiny, fragile creature, tear-streaked lines of kohl on his cheeks, and see a hurt and terrified child. 

“Solas? Where’s Solas? Solas will know, I need…” Samhal looked up and turned his head, but cringed and slumped back with another sob of pain.

“Again, I’m sorry. I don’t know where your friend is. I’m not even entirely sure where we are. Still in the castle, I think.” He plucked gingerly at the collar of the other man’s armored coat, thinking out loud to distract them both. “The rift must have moved us...to what? The closest confluence of arcane energy? But then, we’re...Ah! Of course! It’s not simply where, it’s when! Alexius used the amulet as a focus! It moved us through _time!_ In which case, I have no idea where your friends are. If they didn’t come with us, they could be anywhere at all--or nowhere yet, I suppose. I’m sorry.” He wasn’t making any headway with the jacket, and Samhal kept shifting away, unconsciously protecting the shoulder. Dorian could feel him trembling violently.

“ _I need Solas_.”

Dorian repressed a dismayed sigh. 

“Don’t worry, I’m here. I’ll protect you.”

Samhal looked up at that, cringing against the pain the movement must have caused. He studied Dorian for a moment, eyes tight.

“Alright. Move...what you need to move, and...tell me the truth.”

Dorian had never liked blood, nor been at all drawn to the role of the caretaker. Samhal’s jacket was soaked with blood and water and cut clean through at the shoulder, and peeling it back was a horribly unpleasant process for both men. Samhal’s breathing was jagged and labored, and the occasional whimper escaped gritted teeth. Dorian finally resorted to cutting away the remnants of Samhal’s shirt with his belt-knife so that he could see the full extent of the injury, but at last it was laid bare.

“Ah.” Dorian repressed the quailing of his stomach and kept his tone steady. “Well. It’s a good gash, certainly--several inches, I don’t think too deep--but of course it’s a fairly clean cut. I expect it hurts so much because of the collarbone--I’m afraid it’s snapped right through.” And bent at a sickening angle, but no need to mention that surely. “You won’t have much use of the arm ‘til we can get this fixed--I’ll see if I can’t manage something for a sling in a moment here. You’ll be well enough if we can get you proper help soon.”

It would have been a simple enough matter with the right facilities--nasty to set the bone, but then a quick targeted heal, a good wash, something to hold things closed, and another heal to patch that. But all Dorian had was filthy water and the clothes on their backs, and he had no knack whatsoever for healing. The blood loss itself would send the man into shock soon enough--the pain must be excruciating.

“Do you have any healing potions?”

“Big pouch.”

Thank the Maker. Dorian held the potion he found to Samhal’s lips. Samhal gave a small sigh as the elfroot and its captured magic eased the pain, and his eyes cleared a little. It also stanched the steady flow of blood a bit, and Dorian felt a relief he made sure not to show. Dorian fumbled with his clothing--at least it wasn’t cold down here, more like disconcertingly warm--and began to rig an ungainly sling for the injured arm.

Once the arm was bound up as best they could manage--the wound still gaping obscenely, since Dorian couldn’t bear to cover it with anything that had touched the horrid water--Dorian helped the smaller man to his feet, and they took better stock of their surroundings. He found a small assortment of things in the guards’ pouches--a flask, ruined playing cards, a ring of heavy keys--and slipped those that seemed useful into his pouch.

Giant red crystals were growing up several of the walls, light shifting and pulsing within them mesmerizingly. Dorian drew closer to one to examine it, but when he reached out, Samhal stopped him with a short, “Don’t”.

“You know what it is, then?”

“Red lyrium. More dangerous. Makes you...go mad just to be around.”

“Kaffas! What is it doing here then? Why is it warm?”

“I don’t know. Scares me. Look, you didn’t say it but I know…” Samhal paused for several careful breaths. “I know I’m not going to last without help, so let’s keep moving. Nothing...nothing good here.”

“Fair enough. If...well, it might be possible to reverse the spell, to get back to when we were. Let’s see what we find, shall we?”

 

It rapidly became apparent that they were in a dungeon--the repetition of the tower heraldry carved into door arches confirmed that it must be Redcliffe Castle, though certainly not the Redcliffe Castle they had entered only that morning--whenever that had been. Several cells showed signs of recent habitation, and a couple held corpses neither man recognized, but no live prisoners. They encountered another pair of guards, but this time they had the advantage of the other men. Samhal held up his left hand as a sign to wait, and after a moment something shifted, and both Venatori doubled over, holding their guts. It was an easy matter to finish them off from there.

The sound of the shouts must have traveled, because once the fight was over, a voice called down the hallway.

“Who is there? Hello?”

“Solas!” Samhal broke into a lurching, shuffling run down the hall. “Solas, where are you?”

Pale, slender hands slipped through the bars of a cell, and Samhal raced to grab one with his good hand, pressing it to his cheek, turning his face into it. As Dorian drew even with the cell, the bald elf moved closer to the bars, cradling Samhal’s head in both hands with a tenderness that belied his former distance.

“You’re alive! We saw you die!” Solas exclaimed. And then, more quietly, “You’re hurt.” 

There was something strange about him--his face, his voice. Something wrong. A shifting red haze, an unnatural reverberation.

“The spell Alexius cast displaced us in time,” Dorian said. “We just got here--so to speak.” He began testing keys from the ring they had taken from dead guards on the lock of the cell. “There were guards in the cell where we appeared. I was not quick enough to protect him.” 

On the third try Dorian found the right key, and, with a rasping clank, the cell door opened. He felt, rather than saw, a magical field dissipate--there must have been a magical barrier bound in the lock to contain the mage. Such things existed in Tevinter, but they were primarily used for the confinement of slaves with magical ability. It was disturbing to find such a thing here. 

Samhal made a small noise of protest when Solas let him go to leave the cell, but Solas went straight back to him, gently lifting his chin to look at the shoulder. Samhal clung to him with his good hand, fingers fisted in the material of his shirt. The two men showed an unmistakable intimacy.

“It hurts.”

“I know, lethallin.” Solas, still cradling Samhal’s head, focused intently on Dorian. “You say he sent you _through time?_ Can you reverse the process?” he asked, breathlessly. “You could return and obviate the events of the last year! It may not be too late!”

“Year?!” Samhal gasped. “Solas--what’s wrong with you? _What’s happened?_ ”

“In short--the Venatori have won, though it is difficult to imagine they are pleased with their bargain. Their Elder One has ascended. The Breach is consuming the world. Demons roam the land freely. When you fell, the strength of the Inquisition failed, and no one else has been able to stand against them. I am dying, but no matter.” Samhal quietly began crying again, new tears cutting through the tracks of the old. “Come, da’haril, keep up the fight. There is hope yet. The red lyrium is killing us all, but if there is still a chance... ” Looking up, he pierced Dorian with his stare. “ _Can you go back?_ ”

Dorian quailed a little, inwardly, at the intensity of that red-tinged gaze. “I believe so. Our only hope is to find the amulet that Alexius used to send us here. If it still exists, I can use it to reopen the rift at the exact spot we left. Maybe.”

“You must! This world must not come to pass, it is an abomination! And--” Solas glanced down at Samhal, whose eyes were closed now. “We must do it quickly.”

 

At first, the cells were occupied only by a depressing assortment of detritus--foul buckets, a mouldering cot, all sloshing in the black water--but then they found the first of the red lyrium corpses--bodies, trapped in giant crystals, with more crystals seemingly growing out of their flesh. Samhal wept steadily, and Dorian found himself wishing he could allow himself some vent as well. 

Around the next corner, at last, they came on more living prisoners. Cassandra spotted them first. She scrambled up, throwing herself against the bars of her cell.

“ _You’ve returned to us!_ Can it be? Has Andraste given us another chance?”

“Cassandra, how can you still be so naive? Surely it is a pretend rescue to gain our trust.” 

Dorian turned to see Vivienne staring at him scornfully from her cell across the passage, straight-backed and elegant despite gaunt cheeks and torn clothing.

“Nonsense,” Dorian said. “We’re alive--we never died. Alexius accidentally sent us through time. For us, it’s been only minutes since he cast his spell.” 

“You were _obliterated_. I was there. You can drop this pathetic ruse.”

“Oh Madame de Fer,” said a third voice. Dorian turned to see the dwarf, Varric, in a cell slightly off to the side. “Just have fun for a minute. It’s more of my friends, come to visit. Have you come to hear the song, too?” He smiled brightly, the effect unnerving in the dim, red-lit space. “Everyone should hear the song; Bartrand’s right.”

Vivienne sighed. “Of course, Varric darling. It is good to have visitors,” she said, tone surprisingly gentle. “However false.” 

“Vivienne. Cassandra. ...Varric.” Everyone looked at Samhal. “’M not dead. Not a trick. Look-- Who...who would be this big a mess...on purpose? Please I don’t--have time. Listen.”

Briefly, Dorian explained the plan as best he could and unlocked cells, while Samhal clung weakly to Solas. Vivienne eyed the duo skeptically as she came out of her cell.

“Will he survive? Or is this only one last hope to torture us before death?”

Something crackled in Solas’ eyes. “He is stronger than he seems. He will do what he must. We will open the way.”

Samhal muttered something that sounded distinctly like, “Alexius...suck my wrinkly man berries…” and then hissed in pain.

The sun broke out on Cassandra’s ravaged face. “Madame de Fer, I assure you--this is no trick. Praise Andraste, this is the true Samhal Lavellan.”

 

“Listen closely, Master Pavus.” Vivienne snapped. “If this effort is to mean anything, you will need information. I will not see my suffering wasted.”

Dorian listened as he unlocked the dwarf, who gave him another disconcertingly merry smile and then patted his back, glancing around in confusion.

“Jeannie! Hawke! Where did I put Bianca?”

Cassandra sighed and pressed her lips together. “I am sorry. He’s been...there are times when he understands. But most of the time...he is not here. Come, Varric, we will look for Bianca.” Varric accepted her guidance as they began to walk.

Vivienne resumed her narrative. “After you vanished, many of those with us in the castle lost heart. Some attempted to flee back through the secret passage. The Fereldan soldiers and some Inquisition scouts tried to fight to the front gate, but Alexius and the Venatori resisted too strongly. No one made it.”

“How long has it been?” Dorian asked.

“I am afraid I lost count when they stopped bringing meals every day. That was at seven months, but it has been some time since then.”

“I must know precisely.”

“Then we shall hope someone else has kept good record.”

“Keep watch for any written material,” Solas cut in. “And we need weapons, allies, anything we can find to aid us.”

Vivienne nodded. “To continue. The Fereldans sieged the castle repeatedly, but it was doomed. We heard when the Elder One came, and then the siege weapons stopped.”

Samhal roused at that. “King Alistair?”

“Dead,” Vivienne said. “You may believe they...made sure we knew our allies had fallen.” Samhal’s mouth twisted.

“Commander Rutherford and the Inquisition, with the remainder of the Fereldan forces, made an attempt as well. We heard the trebuchets. But the result was the same.”

“Fuck, Cullen, you said not to, you told me not to. You _told_ me,” Samhal keened quietly. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

“There is much worse to come, and you must pay attention if you are to have any hope of preventing it all. They were so intent to know what they thought I knew that they gave a great deal up themselves, and other prisoners brought more information as they came. The Empress Celene was assassinated at the hands of the Venatori--we know not when or by whom, but you must find out and prevent it! Do you understand--it is imperative, we need a strong Orlais! In her absence, Orlais descended into chaos. There was no one to stand against the demon army. It destroyed everything in its path.”

“I’m sorry, I must have misheard,” gasped Dorian. “Demon army?”

“You heard correctly. The Elder One swept across Thedas with a horde of demons that destroyed everything in its path--with a dragon at the front. I will not bore you with the descriptions of the devastation, but suffice to say that the rifts seemed a minor evil by comparison. Hunt the Venatori, search them out. Find out where this army comes from and prevent it from being summoned, or you will only have delayed this moment.”

“Andraste has given us this chance,” Cassandra said “and she will guide our hand. I failed you once--Maker forfend I should fail you again. Leliana is here,” she added, glancing carefully around a corner before leading them on. “We must find her. They have taken her often for...questioning, and she may know more that we can use.”

“At first,” Solas added, “we were questioned regularly. They wanted to know who you were, where you came from, how you came to be at the Conclave, and so on. Now, I wonder if we were not kept alive because Alexius knew you would return. Perhaps we were intended as leverage.”

Dorian saw Cassandra, ahead, glance into a doorway searching for anything of use. Instantly, she backpedaled, turning and spreading her arms to stop Samhal’s halting progress.

“You do not need to see this.”

“What?” Samhal grumbled, shuffling sideways.

“No. It will not have come to pass. You needn’t trouble yourself,” Cassandra repeated, trying again to stop the Herald without jarring anything. Dorian, morbidly curious, slipped past her on the other side and looked through the doorway.

Awful as it was, there was nothing in the room that they had not seen before. Several bodies, largely consumed by red crystals. No one he recognized, mercifully. The only visible face was--oh. The same shade as Samhal’s, long red hair falling raggedly over intricate tattoos. As he stood, comparing the shape of the nose, the line of the jaw, a small figure stepped up next to him. There was a choked noise, a word he didn’t quite make out.

“Catch him! He’s--”

Samhal didn’t so much fall as drift to the floor, the parts of his body giving up the fight one after the other. Solas was the only one to move fast enough, catching him just before his head would have struck stone.

“Who is it?” Dorian asked, afraid of the answer.

Cassandra sighed. “His brother. Here, help me lift him, Solas. We cannot stay here.”


	39. Chapter 39

The first thing he became aware of when he woke was the pain, sick and wrong and pulsing through him with every heartbeat.

“What if the bone begins to heal unset?”

“No matter. He has lost too much blood; the potion is needed.”

“There may be spirit healers among the mages if we can get him back.”

“We will.”

“He’s waking.”

Samhal opened his eyes. Improbably, he seemed to be lying on a clean cot. He tried to turn his head and see more, but the pain stopped him.

Solas lifted him, oh so carefully, and Dorian raised a potion bottle to his lips.

“Drink.”

It was a stronger potion than the one before, and once the pain receded, he managed a quick look around. Solas, Dorian, and Cassandra clustered around him. They seemed to be in a barracks room, two rows of empty cots and an assortment of chests and armor stands. He was cleanly bandaged, in what looked to be the remnant of some guard’s shirt, though the bandage was already heavily stained red. Several people gathered by the door. Besides Vivienne and Varric, he saw Blackwall and a woman he did not, at first, recognize as Leliana. To one side clustered a small group of ragged elves and humans he did not know.

He remembered Ilen then.

“He shouldn’t have been here.”

“I am sorry,” Cassandra said. “I should not have let you see.”

“I didn’t _want_ him here.”

“And he made his own choice, for which you are not responsible. There is still hope that we can undo all of this.” Samhal felt Solas press his hand more firmly against Samhal’s back as he spoke.

“Is there? Is there really?” Samhal looked at Solas, and then at Dorian.

“I believe so,” Dorian replied. “I will do everything in my not inconsiderable power, rest assured.”

Leliana appeared over Dorian’s shoulder, giving Samhal a closer view of her disfigured face. Bloodshot eyes were sunken in grey flesh, her skin etched over with scars on top of scars. 

“We need to go,” she said. “We have to find Alexius before the Elder One comes. Get him up.”

“He’s mourning!” objected Dorian.

“Let him mourn if we fail. Get him on his feet or carry him.”

“No, she’s right.” All eyes swung towards Samhal as he struggled upright. “I understand now.”

Leliana met his eyes and he didn’t flinch. “Do you really? Do you understand?”

“We become what we have to be. We do what we have to do, or we die trying.”

Leliana nodded, once, shortly. “Yes. You understand.”

Beside her, Solas moved as if to touch him, and then stopped. He shut his eyes slowly. When he opened them, his face was smooth and neutral, but for a moment it had been so full of pain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Who are those?” Samhal asked, eyes on the rag-tag collection by the door, armed with an assortment of weapons they looked ill at ease with.

“The latest shipment,” said Leliana. “Blood sacrifices. They round them up and bring them here to cook and clean until they become more useful dead than alive. They have chosen to die fighting.”

“Is that really necessary?” asked Dorian. “Surely they can stay somewhere safe. They need not die.”

“Yes, they will die. We will all die. To you, this is a terrible dream, from which you intend to wake. We have lived it, this past year. This is reality. There is nowhere safe. If you fail, there is nothing but death for all of us. Come--the way is clear to the Great Hall. Alexius will be there.”

Samhal was more aware than he had been before of the world around him, and that world was a parade of horrors. Red lyrium jutted out of the walls, shoving aside stone in its passage. Slime grew over the once-fine carving on lintels and beams. Walls were partially collapsed, and he wondered if that were Cullen’s work--Cullen, and great red-gold Alistair who had laughed so easily, and the trebuchets that hadn’t been enough. Everything smelled at once fetid and caustic, as if the electric tang of the lyrium invaded the sinuses, clawing its way in. He moved through it all numbly, as if his damaged body was only a poorly-fitted suit. His mind quietly recorded every nightmarish scene, etched it on his soul.

It would not be. He would make it not be.

A mistake, Alexius had called him, and a thief. But as ridiculous as it was, as ludicrously insufficient as he was to the task, it had been made his. Even if he could remember what he’d done to end up with the Mark, he couldn’t undo it now. There was no running. No hiding. No moonlit balcony in Treviso. No tears. Heroes didn’t cry, or run. Most of all, heroes didn’t fail.

When they reached the last courtyard before their destination, the sky was a horror far beyond the destruction of one castle.

“The Breach!” Dorian cried. “It’s...everywhere!”

As far as they could see, the sky was green, swirled through with green mists and bolts of virulent green energy. Chunks of the castle and the surrounding mountains drifted unanchored through the air, topsy turvy, barren and shattered.

“The Breach--the Conclave. It was the work of the Elder One. It has consumed the world, just as we once feared it would.” 

He would make it not be. He would become whatever he had to be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the end, they did not have to fight Alexius. When they finally broke through the door to the Great Hall, he was there alone, save for a figure still barely recognizable as Felix. Felix crouched to one side, more ghoul than man, head rotating towards them birdlike as they crashed into the room.

“Oh, Felix,” Dorian whispered. More loudly, he said, “Was it worth it? Everything you did to the world? Are you proud of what you’ve wrought, Alexius?”

“It doesn’t matter now, does it? I did what I did.” Alexius looked up, moving slowly as if the life was drained from him. “I knew you would appear again. Not that it would be now. But I knew I hadn’t destroyed you. My final failure.”

“Your saving grace” Samhal said.

Alexius laughed mirthlessly. “The irony, that you should show up now, at the end.”

“The end? What end?” Dorian asked.

“Why, the Elder One comes! For me--for you. For us all.”

“Then you have nothing left to lose,” said Samhal. “Give us the amulet. Now.”

Suddenly, Leliana appeared behind Alexius, dagger to his throat. “ _Now_ , Alexius. Where is it?”

“I have it on me, always.”

“Good,” Leliana hissed, wrenching back the blade.

Alexius looked surprised for a moment, but only a moment. Before he fell, he turned to his son, but whatever he meant to say could not make it through his ruined throat. If it weren’t for all the red, the whole thing would have been strangely peaceful. The Felix-ghoul scrambled to his father’s side, keening quietly.

Leliana wasted no time in rifling Alexius’ clothing and presenting the amulet to Dorian, who took it blindly, still staring at his former mentor.

“He wanted to die, didn’t he?” Dorian’s voice was thick. “All those lies he told himself, the justifications...he lost Felix long ago, and didn’t even notice. Oh, Alexius…”

“Is that the amulet?” Samhal demanded.

“Yes, this is the one he used. I think it’s the same one we made in Minrathous.”

“Then this is not the end. And it _will not_ end like this.”

“Right.” Dorian cleared his throat. “Give me an hour to work out the spell he used, and I should be able to re-open the rift.”

“An hour!” Leliana exclaimed. “That’s impossible. You must go now!”

As if to emphasize her point, the castle suddenly shook violently. A thunderous screech reverberated through the stone and froze Samhal’s blood. Dust filtered down from the ceiling.

“The Elder One,” Leliana whispered.

“Work now,” said Cassandra. “Leliana is right--you do not have an hour. You have as long as we can buy you, no more.” Dorian nodded and moved to the dias, channeling energy into the amulet, brow furrowed in concentration. The companions exchanged glances.

“Fox?”

Samhal spun at the name. “Varric!? Do you...know me?”

Samhal peered into Varric’s eyes, and they focused on him as they had not before.

“Yes, I know you. Though I think you’re different now.” Varric smiled, but it was a natural smile, warm and tired. “Sorry I was gone there. But you know, it’s alright. You’ll be alright. See you on the other side, hey?” He held out a hand, and Samhal took it awkwardly with his left hand. “Come on, guys. Let’s see what the Elder One’s got to show for himself.”

Before she went, Vivienne tucked a sheaf of papers into Samhal’s hand. “Everything we found. Use it. Stop this, by any means necessary.”

Cassandra only nodded before she, too, turned towards the door. The others turned to follow her.

“Wait!”

The companions paused, glancing back at Samhal.

“I...a kiss. Please. For good luck. Please, Solas.”

He heard Cassandra’s startled, “What?” but didn’t look away from Solas. Samhal clung to the little widening of his eyes, the raised eyebrows, the beginning of a smile. He had to come back--he couldn’t just go, and die, and Samhal had never said too many things.

He came back. Three quick strides, and he was there.

Solas cradled his head cautiously with one hand, careful not to jar him. He studied Samhal’s face for just a moment, and then leaned in and pressed one gentle kiss to his lips, too warm and lyrium tinged, but precious. Parting, he touched their foreheads together.

“Good luck, lethallin.”

And then he turned and was gone. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The door would not lock again. After it closed--with a dull finality that made Samhal jerk--Blackwall and Leliana, who had stayed as a last line, dragged the few pieces of furniture in front of it as a barricade. For a while, there was silence on either side of the door, pierced only by the distant screeching of whatever horrible creature perched on the roof. Symbols danced in the air as Dorian muttered to himself, and Leliana paced back and forth relentlessly. Pain crept back through the numbing haze of the elfroot.

The shriek of a terror demon came from the hallway outside, echoed by a scream from one of the unfortunate servants. He exchanged a glance with Dorian before the other mage returned to his work. They heard Cassandra’s battle cry, the clash of weapons, the crack of a spell. Something thudded against the door. Leliana arranged arrows between her fingers, and Blackwall hefted his shield. Samhal waited to see if this was how their lives ended.

Again, and then again something struck the door, and the oak dining table and massive carved chair scraped against the floor as they shifted. Samhal began to channel energy, but Dorian looked up and shook his head once sharply. 

He would not cry. This would not be.

The barricade began to shift again, and this time nothing stopped it. As soon as the crack widened enough for sighting, Leliana’s arrows began to fly, but still they poured in, Venatori and demons together. No one still fought on the other side of the door. Blackwall met the first demon with a roar almost as inhuman as the demon’s, and something rippled strangely over his back and shoulders.

“When do we turn and fight?”

“Don’t! I’ve nearly...got it…”

Blackwall fought on, red crystals sprouting from his back and arms, but demons and Venatori flowed around him. Leliana threw aside her bow and drew daggers, gutting one Venatori and slitting the throat of another in a single terrifyingly fluid motion. The first terror demon reached the bottom of the dias.

“ _Now! _” Dorian cried out as green light spilled into the room. Samhal felt the familiar pull, the same chaotic whirling. The sounds of fighting grew strangely tinny and then winked out.__

__Gone. All gone._ _

__~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_ _

__Samhal hit the ground hard, head spinning, stomach reeling. He heaved himself upright with a roar, and found himself bare feet away from Alexius, wide-eyed and still holding the amulet._ _

__“No!” Snarling, he ripped the amulet out of Alexius’ hand. “You will not have them! _It will not be!_ ”_ _

__Lurching sideways, he felt Dorian catch him, bending down to haul his good arm over a broad shoulder. For a moment, Alexius stood, hand still outstretched._ _

__“You have failed, and you will fail, and you should be grateful. _Surrender, now!_ ”_ _

__The anger bled out of Alexius’ eyes. At last, his shoulders slumped and he fell to his knees._ _

__“I am sorry, Felix. I failed you.”_ _

__“Cassandra!” Samhal barked._ _

__Immediately she was at his side, and his heart flooded with the relief of it._ _

__“Take him. Bind him. We have to get the gate open. Alexius!”_ _

__“Yes?”_ _

__“You _will_ tell your people to stand down. Redcliffe is not yours.”_ _

__Samhal spent the next eternity struggling to keep his head up and his bile down as Dorian half-carried him through the castle in the wake of their forces. At the sight of Alexius trussed up and ordering them to surrender, the Venatori reluctantly laid down their weapons. Mages watched from all sides, but he couldn’t focus well enough to tell more than that they were not fighting._ _

__It was all so easy, and the difference had been so small. One small elf, no more._ _

__By the time the gates opened, Samhal was slumped over, Dorian propping up one side, Solas hovering at the other, casting a slight chilling spell over the wounded shoulder._ _

__“Help m’ up. King. King?”_ _

__“Yes, lethallin, Alistair is coming.”_ _

__With a monumental effort and the help of gentle hands, Samhal hauled himself upright in time to see Alistair and Arl Teagan lead their forces through the great gates of Redcliffe Castle._ _

__“Well met, Herald!” The handsome face swam dizzily in his vision. “I was going to offer congratulations on a bloodless victory, but actually that’s quite a lot of blood--are you--”_ _

__For a horrible moment, Samhal thought he might throw up on the king of Ferelden. But then the edges of his vision went black and his knees gave out, and for the second time that day, he passed out._ _


	40. Chapter 40

Samhal woke whole and warm, clean and free of pain. Immediately he lifted his hand, flexing and rotating it, but everything was as if he’d never been injured. When he pushed himself upright, feather mattresses gave under his hands.

“You’re awake! Finally.”

Samhal looked over to find Dorian lounging in a chair, foot drawn up onto the opposite knee, holding a leather-bound notebook open with his thumb.

“I’m awake.” He rolled his shoulder gingerly, and then more freely. He looked up at the figured velvet canopy over the bed, down at the carved wood posts. “It wasn’t a dream? Or this is a dream.”

“Neither, as improbable as that must seem. All quite madly real.”

Samhal sighed and flopped back on the pillows. “Creators.”

“Something like that, yes. I wanted to be here when you woke, in case...that is, I thought the others might not understand as well. They nearly wouldn’t let me alone with you. The dastardly Tevinter might yet have his evil designs, you know.”

A half-giddy laugh of relief bubbled out of Samhal. “ _You saved us all._ ” And then, more soberly, “Or will have, if I do better with this chance.”

“We already have, really. The dashing King Alistair is in residence in the castle, Alexius is in chains, and everyone is remarkably not-dead at the moment. A very considerable improvement, I think you’ll agree. Oh, I asked after your brother, and I’m told he’s hale and well.”

“Thank you. For...everything. My arm…?”

“Quite a good spirit healer, for a southerner. Good thing, too. Now that it’s over I don’t suppose it can hurt to say that you were terribly grey by the end.”

“The end--” The last of his sleepy lassitude fell away in a cold rush. Flailing under down comforters and embroidered coverlets, Samhal wrestled his way to the edge of the huge bed. “What’s being done? How long has it been?! What did you tell them, and where is Alexius? _How long has it been?_ ” Breaking free of the covers, he slid off the edge of the bed and landed in a puddle on the unexpectedly distant floor.

“You haven’t eaten yet,” Dorian observed mildly. “You’ll be weak as a kitten. You’ve only been out half a day, and half _our_ day didn’t happen for anyone else. Give yourself time.”

Samhal stayed where he found himself, scowling. “I don’t have time! You know the stakes, don’t _you_ tell me to have patience. For all we know, this Elder One is building a demon army already. Where is Cassandra?”

“With the Fereldans, I expect. For a man in a rush, you aren’t eating yet. I have very express instructions from your Solas to make sure you eat. I will say that I’ve been reading Alexius’ journal”--he gestured with the book he’d been holding--”and I think that with him and the amulet out of play we’ve bought ourselves a little time. Besides, I expect you’d rather put yourself together a bit more before meeting with the king.”

Samhal glanced down at an expanse of bare thigh, and realized that he was wearing nothing but a soft shirt.

“I don’t know. Is the king likely to be influenced by a nice bit of ass? Oh all right, where’s the food, and is it all turnips and mutton?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

After he’d eaten (it wasn’t turnips and mutton, but it was rye bread, parsnips, and mutton), he felt strong enough to meet everyone standing. Explaining to people about the end of the world from bed didn’t seem like something the Herald of Andraste should do. 

So here he was, in the Arl of Redcliffe’s study, vigorously pretending he was in his element. The Arl himself had been gracious when he was asked to absent himself--at Dorian’s urging, the group gathered was very select. They hardly wanted more people eager to explore the interesting new field of destroying the world via ripping holes in time, and so their entire experience had to be a tightly-controlled secret. He scanned the people gathered--the people he most needed to understand the stakes, mostly, but in some cases just...the people he most needed. King Alistair, Fiona, Felix, Vivienne, Cassandra, Solas, and Varric all looked back at him, waiting.

No excuse for delaying now. 

“To begin, I want you to understand that Dorian Pavus has my full and complete confidence, and should have your trust as well. As he has already told you, what was a few seconds to you was several terrible hours to us, and during that time he was calm and collected, he protected me against overwhelming odds, and to be completely blunt, if any of us here live out the year, it will be directly because of his intervention.” He waited a moment for the stir that caused to subside. “What we saw, while we were gone, was a future in which I did not return to the throne room this morning. In your own words, it was an abomination. It is a future I will do anything to prevent. 

“I realize it’s amazingly arrogant even by my standards to think that my presence could make the difference, but I have to believe that it is so. I have to _make_ it so. And you don’t realize it yet, but a difference has already been made. We have already prevented huge suffering today. Without my return, Alexius did not surrender, and he held the castle. But now we have this chance, and we _can’t fail_ ”

They listened. A _king_ listened, to him. Dorian took over most of the talking after that, because he remembered the details far better. Letters, journals, and supply lists both mundane and nauseating were passed around, examined, and discussed. The thing that struck him most about it all was how well they took it. There was horror, but no hand-wringing. No one tried to explain how they had important business elsewhere. The whole meeting was, ultimately, eerily businesslike. They compared notes, asked logical questions, threw out ideas.

As he listened to them accept the problem and move straight to possible solutions, he felt the crushing weight on his soul lessen, if only a little. These were the people who had carried him, whining and foot-dragging, this far. These were the people who had died without a moment’s hesitation to give him this second chance. Yes, these were his people. Looking around him, he took a deep breath.

“What of the mages?” Fiona said into a moment’s silence. “What becomes of us now?”

Samhal realized with a start that the question was directed at him. “I came to Redcliffe for mages. I need you now more than ever.”

“Yes, but on what terms?” asked Vivienne. “Now of all times, we must show a willingness to accept reasonable limitations!”

“Reasonable limitations!” exclaimed Fiona. “There is no yoke too heavy that it cannot be considered reasonable, in the eyes of some. Who would you have determine what is _reasonable_ , Vivienne? You?”

“And why not me? You would still maintain the wisdom of your rebellion, after all the deaths it has caused? After it drew Tevinter to the south? Mages are hated now more than ever. We must begin to repair the harm.”

“ _They were killing us anyway._ They have been for a thousand years, whether you will see it or no. They would have killed us all at the White Spire, before the vote could be made. What would you have had us do, lie quiet before the sword?”

“How could you have imagined that your blatant sedition would provoke any other response!”

“Ladies, please!” Alistair stood up, towering over the others. “If only one of you were right, the problem wouldn’t be so awful. But it’s late, and I’m tired. I’ve fought to grant mages more freedoms since I took the throne, and I gambled a great deal of good will on convincing the Landsmeet to allow the mages refuge here. It brought Tevinter into our house, and I can’t allow that to go un-addressed. Fiona, you and your mages must go--you are banished from Ferelden. I can do no more myself. Herald, what do you say?”

Every gaze turned to Samhal. He recollected himself after a second and closed his mouth.

“I…” His eyes flickered to Solas, and then Varric, as if they might offer some clue. They only looked back, waiting. “I...the stakes are much greater than the war on mages. We’re fighting for the survival of Thedas. For that, I need eager allies, not prisoners to weigh us down. We don’t even have the resources to maintain a system like the Circles, I don’t think. I can’t speak for the templars, and the Chantry’s made it pretty clear I don’t speak for them, but I won’t be the one to punish people for wanting to be free. Vivienne, Fiona--this is the mages’ chance, a chance to prove that mages can fix what mages fuck up. Fiona, will you ally yourself with the Inquisition and come to Haven?”

Relief showed in every line of Fiona’s face. “I will, and happily.”

Vivienne tsked angrily. “This decision will drive needed allies away, Herald.”

“Then I’ll have to be smarter and sweeter. I’ll do what I have to.”

Alistair sighed tiredly. “It’s decided, then. If you’ll excuse me, I’m not done with the disposition of my troops, and we all have things to think about. Sleep tight, and don’t let the demons bite.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Most of those gathered followed Alistair as he left. Samhal roused himself from his thoughts just in time to see Cassandra in the doorway.

“Cassandra, wait.”

Varric slipped past her as she turned back, head cocked. Otherwise, only Solas remained in the study, waiting to escort Samhal back to his room.

“Ahh...Cassandra. I feel like I need to say, I know I have a lot of changes to make. And uh...some amends. I’ve been nothing but awful to you, really.”

“Not without some cause. I do understand that you would not have chosen any of this were it not for me.”

“And I would have been wrong. You didn’t force me, this Elder One did. I should have acknowledged that you didn’t make this mess and you didn’t give me this Mark. I attacked you and baited you, and you protected me and carried me. I’m an asshole--I do know that. Not sure I know how to stop, actually. But when you weren’t there--well, I failed. And since we have to do this…” He paused, searching for the words. “I’m glad you’re here. I want you here.”

“I--” The torchlight flickered and shifted across the hard planes and angular scars of Cassandra’s face. “Thank you. This will likely come as a surprise, but I am glad you are here, as well.” She hesitated, and then nodded brusquely and turned to leave. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

The turns to the hall where the companions were being housed were many, and Samhal was grateful for Solas’ guidance--and, after he once stumbled blearily into a doorframe, Solas’ gentle hand on his arm.

When they reached the final corridor, they found Varric in an open doorway, laughingly shooing a chambermaid out of his room.

“I’ve got it. You’ve just come back yourself, I’m sure you have your own things to worry about.”

The woman curtseyed slightly and turned to leave as Solas and Samhal came even with Varric.

“I’ll grant you it’s been a while since a proper bed,” Varric said, “but I think I still remember how to turn down my own blankets.”

Samhal laughed. “My bed is enormous. I nearly got lost on the way out.”

Varric snorted and clapped a hand on Samhal’s healed arm. “‘S good to see you healed up. You gave us all a scare, disappearing and then popping out of nowhere covered in blood and yelling.”

There was an awkward pause, full of things that could be said, and some that should be.

“So I, uh...realized something, when I was in the future,” Samhal started. “A lot of things, I mean, but this thing, anyway.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh you’ve...you’ve done a lot for me, really been good company to me. You didn’t have to, but you always were, before I did anything to earn it, before you knew anything about me, really. I’d--” He took a deep breath. This shouldn’t be so difficult; he’d already done it once tonight. He thought of a different Varric, destroyed and dying and using his precious moment of clarity to reassure someone else. “I’d miss you if you weren’t around. So, friends?”

“Fox, we’ve been that for a while now. Nice to see you catching up, though.”

Samhal laughed sheepishly. “Alright, then, that’s…good.”

Varric smiled approvingly at Samhal. Samhal cleared his throat.

“We don’t have to hug or anything now, do we?”

“Maker, no.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Solas moved into the room, Samhal pushed the door shut behind him. Solas turned at the dull thunk as Samhal threw the latch home.

“Is it my turn, then, to be told how much you value my friendship?” He smiled crookedly, and Samhal lingered on the line from nose to mouth, the small wrinkles that bunched up at the corner of one eye, the grey of his irises just touched with a purple he couldn’t see in this light but knew was there.

“Not exactly, no.” Samhal swallowed. This was much, _much_ harder. The smile slipped from Solas’ face, but he gave Samhal space to explain himself.

“You know you all died, in the future. That future. But I--I just had to stand there as it happened, and think about how I’d been, the things I didn’t say. I’m going to be different, this time. You could die again, just as easily, any time really. I don’t want…” Samhal choked, and stopped. He tried again, and was stopped again. At last, he reached out and caught the sides of Solas’ face, pulling him down. He kissed him hard, as if he could press the meaning into the other man’s mouth, breathe it in, kissed him open-mouthed and messy and desperate, and Solas kissed back like a man dying of thirst.

Samhal broke away first. “I care about you. There, I said it. Not just as a friend. I want to hold you at night. I want to touch you. I want...I want to tell you secrets. To trust you…”

Solas’s face shifted as Samhal spoke. He stepped back, hands raising between them. “No...no, no, this is a mistake…” He shook his head slowly in denial.

“It’s _not!_ I know what I want! I think you want it too. The way you touched me--the way you _always_ touch me, I see now, and you...you kissed me in front of everyone, at the end. You care!”

“No, _no!_ The error is mine, not yours. I should never have allowed this to happen. I should never have permitted myself to lie with you, should never have--”

Samhal broke in harshly. “You think this is about the sex? I told you! Do you have any idea how many people I’ve had sex with? It was never about sex, it _never_ was; I was just too stupid to see it! No don’t--” He reached out and grabbed Solas’ hand, stopping his retreat. “Listen to me, I need to say it. It doesn’t even matter what you feel, what you do. But what you’ve been to me--I need to tell you. You’ve been the only person who looked at me and just saw a person. Not a savior or a demon or a disappointment or a hope, just a person. You taught me like I was worth the effort. You showed me the Fade, told me wonderful things...please. _Please_ , take a chance on me. I’m going to be better, I’m going to be more--”

“You are already so much more than I looked to find.”

This time, Solas leaned in first, touching Samhal’s lips almost reverently with his own. Samhal leaned up into them hard, mouth opening, tongue darting over the insides of Solas’ lips. He felt Solas’ arm slip around his waist, pulling him tight, long fingers curling over his side. It supported him as he was pushed backwards on tiptoe until they hit the solid oak door. Samhal let his mind fill with Solas’ lips, Solas’ hands; he let it push everything else out, here pinned and held, safe and alive.

Samhal took a shuddering breath when Solas finally pulled away. Solas looked at him, eyes moving over his face, and brushed a lock of stray hair off his forehead.

“You are already so much more,” he whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...........(I'm trying not to spoil the mood.) Okay, good? GAH! I'm so glad I got this chapter done after all the chaos and work that's kept my brain from working right. I really really wanted to share one more chapter with you before I go on vacation. But now I'll be gone for two weeks starting Saturday, and I don't know how much writing I'll be able to get done while I'm gone, but I won't even have a computer, so no chapter until after I get back and put my life back together post-vacation. I wanted to let you know.
> 
> Okay back to wallowing in the feels!


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I liiiive! Sorry about the long long wait, but as it turns out camping in the woods in 90 degree heat with fourteen children isn't really a great writing environment. Who knew. But! A chapter.

This time when Samhal woke up, Solas was still there. He held still, savoring the steady rise and fall of Solas’ chest, the warmth under thick blankets, the way their bodies fit together, pushing away the weight of the day.

“Sleep well?”

Of course Solas would know he was awake. 

“Yes, actually. I thought for sure I’d have nightmares.” 

He sighed and squirmed against Solas’ side, pressing closer, but Solas pulled away, sitting up slightly so that he could look at Samhal. Samhal blinked back blearily, disgruntled at the displacement. His heart tightened at the intensity in Solas’ face.

“What were you like? Before the Anchor?”

Samhal fumbled. “What? Uh…”

“Has it affected you? Changed you in any way?”

“What kind of ridiculous question is that? Of course having the Mark’s changed me. It blew up my entire fucking life. Nothing’s like it was.”

“Ah, yes. I apologize, that was unclear. I meant to ask, has it affected your...mind. Your morals. Your...spirit.”

“As far as I have morals, I assume you mean. You mean actually the thing, though...the Mark, right? Not what’s happened because of it.”

“Correct.”

“In that case, then, no. If it was supposed to make me naturally heroic or stronger or more noble or help me know what I should do, then something fucked up, because I’m just me.”

“Ah.”

“‘Ah’ what? What the fuck kind of question was that, anyway? Don’t tell me you buy the Andraste thing.”

“Merely a foolish thought. At times you remind me of--you are not what I expected.”

Samhal scowled. “Jackass. What did you expect? Ilen?”

Solas snorted on a surprised laugh. “In part, yes.”

“Disappointed?”

“The furthest thing from it.” Solas smiled, and Samhal returned the smile hopefully.

“Does that mean you’ll give us a chance?”

“It would be kinder not to, in the long run.”

“The long run? I didn’t fucking propose, man. You died yesterday, we could both die tomorrow. Can’t we worry about the long run if it gets here?”

Solas’ breath brushed against Samhal’s cheek as he chuckled. “You overwhelm me with the subtlety of your wiles.”

“I’ll overwhelm you with the subtlety of my d--” Solas cut off the last word with a kiss, laughing against his lips. Samhal laughed back, giddy with being alive, being held, being wanted.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As planned, Samhal faced the least pleasant task first. Dorian met them in the guard room at the entrance to the dungeons, and after brief, tense greetings, they made their way to Alexius’ cell.

He eyed the cell curiously, noting the contrast from the last time he’d seen them--dry, musty but relatively clean, furnished with a chamber pot, a rough blanket, the remains of a plain breakfast. Dorian himself had primed and charged the magical locks that once would have held Alexius’ magical prisoners and now held Alexius and his lieutenants. Alexius sat on the narrow pallet, elbows on knees. He looked up at their footsteps, jumping up when he saw who came.

“It worked, didn’t it? My spell worked.” The eagerness in his voice suited the situation poorly. “Your injury was not fresh when you reappeared. The spell cannot have failed entirely.”

“ _It worked?_ You--you know, I’m here to decide whether you’re useful enough alive to warrant the risk. You probably shouldn’t lead by being _excited_ over--” Samhal stopped and took a deep breath. “Yes, it worked, you fucking-- look. I am going to tell you all about it. Isn’t that exciting? How much detail would you like? Shall I tell you about the corpses? The sky eaten by the Breach? The demons? Your son withering away to a mindless ghoul? Shall I tell you how you helped destroy the world? Not for your satisfaction, trust me, but because Dorian here still believes that there might be the remnant of a good person somewhere in there. He thinks that if you understood the full horror of what you did, you might help us. What I think is that you killed my family and tortured my friends, that you murdered people you swore to protect--your honor as a magister, remember? But don’t take my word for it. We have your journal, right here. Care to hear your own words?” Samhal riffled through the pages, scanning lines, and stopped on a page towards the back. “Here, how about this one, dated ten months from now?

_“I can hardly look at Felix, now. He is barely there, and save me, but I am glad sometimes. If he understood the things I’d done...well. He would not understand. I have failed him. I have desecrated Livia’s memory and betrayed her principles. I have failed the Elder One. There is no remedy now.”_

Samhal stopped, marking the page with a finger. No one spoke at first.

“Alexius, please,” Dorian pled. “You were a good man once. You saw it yourself--Felix would not want this. He reached out to the Inquisition because he doesn’t want it.”

Alexius sagged back onto his cot. “I cannot. I cannot save Felix, and you cannot stop the Elder One. He is greater than you or anyone who might aid you. He will rise, regardless. My part has been a small one.”

“ _Then tell me!_ Tell me anything! If it won’t make any difference, tell me everything!”

“You will learn soon enough. He had eyes everywhere. He will already know that I have failed.”

“Who is he? _What_ is he?” Samhal reached for the bars and jerked his hand back at the crack when the Mark touched the interference field. “Why is he doing this? _Give me something!_

“He is beyond your understanding. What I have done, I would do again. Your victory here has cost me my son, and you will have nothing from me, elf.”

Samhal snarled and lashed out at the wall, fist striking stone. His breath was ragged in the silence after.

“Is this a good man in Tevinter, then, Dorian?”

“I thought so once.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“...start figuring out which mages to help close the Breach.” Samhal strode down the corridor toward the Great Hall, voice raised to reach Solas behind him. “And we’ll train every night when we stop. I have to get control of _everything_. I can’t keep--what’s all that noise?” Samhal stopped, his boots making a final scuff on the stone floor. “Fucking Void, what’s--” he trailed off, trotting down a side passage until he broke out onto a balcony overlooking the inner bailey of Redcliffe Castle.

The courtyard was utter chaos. A sergeant barked orders at a troop of soldiers that couldn’t obey them because a cart full of grain sacks was driving through the middle of their formation. Castle servants, scrambling to undo the damage of weeks of Tevinter occupation, scurried along the edges trying to reach their destinations safely. And everywhere--everywhere--there were mages. Young, old, large, small, huddling in fearful clusters or looking about defiantly, backs stiff. A group of painfully skinny robed children chased a small dog through the crowd, laughing and sowing even more chaos.

Too many to count. Too many to feed. How had they even survived this far? How was he going to get them to Haven? How was he going to _keep them alive?_ The enormity of what he had done--

“The Herald! Hail the Herald!”

His head whipped around, eyes searching the crowd, but he couldn’t tell who had shouted. Faces were turning towards him, down below. Someone else picked up the cry-- “Hail the Herald! Herald of Our Lady!”

Not everyone joined, but it was enough. Enough to ring off the rust-red stones. Enough to be heard down every hall and in every chamber. Enough to make his eyes sting with the sudden shock and wonder of it.

Remembering himself, he raised a hand to the crowd. He pulled the Mark out, crackling and spilling green light. He hardly felt the ache of it in the face of the redoubled cheering. Finally, he lowered his hand, Mark flickering out, and fled back into the corridor they’d come from. The last echoes of his title chased him.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered to the ancient stones.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The crowd caught up with him in a lower antechamber. The ambush caught him raw and unprepared, head still whirling, and for a few minutes all he could do was smile desperately while half a dozen people talked at him simultaneously. Questions, demands, pleas, complaints... words struck him like hail, each pain indistinct from the last.

Cassandra found him there, and after some bellowing back and forth, managed to disperse most of the crowd. The rest stayed, waiting with varying degrees of grace for the chance to air grievances, request help, or make demands. The keeper of the village general store wanted to know who would compensate him for three barrels of lamp oil, 23 dry sausages ‘with pepper and fennel straight from Antiva, nothing cheap’, five tanned hides, and a dozen more things. Arl Teagan’s cellarer, much more politely but no less firmly, wanted to know when he could expect them to be out of his castle, and if he was expected to feed them in the meantime, and what was he to do with the ridiculous demands of the mages. 

A Fereldan captain whose name Samhal missed was looking for mages to help them deal with mysterious paraphernalia they had found in several rooms. His own people wanted to know if they should be taking orders from the Arl, where were they to get fresh supplies for the horses, how were they to transport several hundred new people… And the mages--the mages wanted to know where they were going, how they would get there, what they would be doing there, what their sureties would be, how they would be housed, what they should be doing here, who was giving orders… 

Samhal had no answers, and stopped even trying to remember the questions very early on. As the hours passed, he smiled until his jaw ached, and wondered who would save him. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He had escaped at last to relieve his bladder, but taken a wrong turn on his way back from the privy. Now he was walking down an unfamiliar corridor, quieter than most, when suddenly a voice he recognized as one of the shriller mage advocates drifted around the corner. Freezing, he glanced around. This corridor ended in the next--the man would come around the corner in moments, and then he’d be trapped, with no more answers than he’d had an hour before. The hall he was in was too long to backtrack. Desperately, he pushed open the door next to him and glanced in--light filtered in from high windows, showing dancing dust motes, an empty table and chairs, and a bed even larger than his own. He darted in, carefully pushed the door to behind him. As the mage’s strident voice passed by, he heaved a sigh and rested his forehead against the rough wood.

“Going that well, is it?”

Samhal leapt up, suppressing a yelp. “What--Oh Creators, oh...Your Majesty!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Alistair said, from his seat in the corner. 

“Oh shit, this is your room.”

“Well, I said I’d take my old quarters, but the scullery boys didn’t want to share.” He smiled crookedly. “It’s alright, I’m hiding too. It’s been a morning, hasn’t it? Here, there’s another chair.” He gestured broadly with a slab of bread and cheese.

Samhal took the indicated seat, feeling a little engulfed by the high back.

“Herald of Andraste, eh? That’s a big title.”

“For such a little guy, you mean?” 

“Well, I meant in general, actually, but you do look like I could pick you up with one arm, since you mention it.”

Samhal restrained his first response to _that_ opening. “My mother said I never ate enough, blame it on that.”

An awkward silence fell, during which Alistair chewed, and Samhal reverted to stewing in his own inadequacy.

Alistair swallowed and cleared his throat. “Look, maybe this is presumptuous of me. But from what I see, you’ve just been through hell, had to see all your friends die, nearly died, and today everyone’s looking to you for answers and expecting you to save the world. By a strange coincidence, I’ve been in a similar position, and if you’re not half out of your mind, you’re a better man than me.” Samhal pulled a sickly grin at that. “I’ve learned a lot since then. And maybe you’ve got it under control, and Maker knows I only managed any of it because of other people, but if you’d like a word of advice, here we both are.”

“Ah…’under control’ doesn’t seem to be the right phrase, no.” 

Alistair chuckled. “Well here’s the magic word: delegate. Took me long enough to learn. It’s not your job to invent new ways to discipline magisters or provision everyone or tell Whats-his-name out there”--he gestured at the closed door-- “when the apprentices are going to resume classes. Your job is to find the right people and inspire them. I don’t know about you, but the more I try to do myself, the more likely people are to end up halfway down the Drakon with no oars. Find the right people, make them want to do what they think you want.”

Samhal laughed bitterly. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“The people you know. Seem like some good people. Shall we sally forth together? I doubt very many people will dare corner both of us at once.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Alistair was right--almost everyone was at least moderately polite when faced with both the new-minted Herald of Andraste and the beloved King of Ferelden. With a little space for consideration, Samhal found that he didn’t have answers, but often had a good guess as to who would. As soon as Samhal caught the beginning of a thought, Alistair would grab the next person who didn’t move fast enough with the crack of authority in his voice, and the thought would become action. 

“Look, it took me forever to get this right, but this is how command works. You don’t ask them--never ask. You tell them. And then you look away and assume they’ll do it. You try it next.” 

And so Samhal did. 

Informing Vivienne and Fiona that they _would_ reach whatever understanding was needed to cooperate was certainly not the least terrifying thing he’d done recently. Whatever conversations they had privately, though, they did turn a united front to the mages. Natural divisions and relationships already existed, of course--Circles, Fraternities, Schools. Travel groups were formed, mages pulled out for particular tasks, the weak and vulnerable paired with caretakers. Dorian assisted the men clearing out Venatori labs, and Cassandra found her place communicating between the Fereldan army and the Inquisition’s people. Blackwall needed no instruction, having already taken a single long look at the mage children, in their tattered slippers that had never been intended for rocky ground, and taken it upon himself to find enough wagons to carry them to Haven. Solas began interviewing senior enchanters looking for mages with raw channeling ability, and Varric took his place with pen and paper at Samhal’s side--not without some grumbling on the subject of being a clerk.

To Samhal’s enormous relief, Alistair donated part of the provisions he had brought against the possibility of siege, and Teagan divided out a portion of the food and equipment the Venatori had brought. With the exception of some Tevinter peculiarities, most of it was plain, heavy, and filling, but there would be no fresh food and no foraging to be done for some time yet, so they took it gladly. It was lean times for everyone.

Samhal worked as purple shadows slipped up the courtyard walls and servants began filling and lighting cressets, and then he worked by firelight. He issued commands as if he had been born to it, as if a part of him didn’t flinch and wait for the blow after every one. He learned not only to look away and expect obedience, but also, when necessary, to look back and scorch a recalcitrant party with his disappointment. He signed requisitions and permissions as if that were a thing he had ever done before, as if his signature had even been worth anything to the world before this. His writing hand and spelling were stiff and childish, but Varric stayed with him until they sagged off to their beds some time after midnight. The next morning, they got up and did it again. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three days later, to Samhal’s private amazement, all of the Inquisition members, a small collection of new volunteers, several hundred mages, and an escort of Fereldan troops were all spooling out behind him on the rocky road outside Redcliffe. 

Alistair gave a speech--all very proper, Ferelden was grateful for assistance rendered, please call on us if there’s anything we can do, we wish you luck in your noble endeavor--and ended it with a wink and a quiet “good luck”. And then, like an ice-clogged river in spring flood, the column began to move.

The weather was milder as the year crept into ice-covered-mud season, though it grew colder again when they reached the mountains. Samhal found progress achingly slow, as wagons mired and every stop meant re-starting several hundred mentally and emotionally exhausted people. Every day was a tangle of arguments mediated on horseback, desperate ideas, dark memories. Every night, he and Solas worked late into the night among the trees, trying to strengthen his magic.

“Try again. Focus. Reach past the ambient energies, and find--” Solas broke off as yet another attempted lightning bolt broke off with a crack and a purple-tinged spark.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Samhal shook his hand angrily. “I can’t do it! I can’t feel the...fucking...I can’t.”

“It might be best to set this aside for the moment and get some rest. Tomorrow will be another early start.”

“I _can’t_ ” Samhal shouted, hurling his staff away. “Don’t you get it? I can’t stop, I can’t fail, I can’t be weak! It’ll come after me, that...thing. Sooner or later their Elder One will come for me and I’m nothing, I can’t--” He lashed out at the nearest tree, punching wildly. “I can’t fail, I _can’t_ ” He punctuated each repetition with another hit.

“V--lethallin! What are you--stop!” Solas caught at his wrists, finally trapping them against his chest. Samhal felt the sting of broken skin.

“Calm yourself--your people can hear you.” With a last reflexive jerk, Samhal stilled, sagging until his forehead rested against Solas’ chest. “Remember your goals. It serves nothing for you to exhaust yourself over this small thing. You will not face this Elder One alone.”

“You think that makes it _better?_ ” Samhal sighed, breath hitching. “Forget it. Let’s go sleep.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning after breakfast, Solas disappeared into the mass of mages. Samhal rode silently at the front of the column, half-listening as Fiona and Vivienne discussed the logistics of arriving at Haven in frigidly polite tones. 

When they broke for the noon rest and lunch, Solas reappeared, trailing a man who looked like an untidy, sunburned stork, all long bones and shaggy black hair.

“Allow me to introduce Senior Enchanter Quinn.” Samhal nodded to Quinn and raised a quizzical eyebrow at Solas. “He comes highly recommended by his fellows as a teacher of what you call Entropy magic, and he is willing to teach you if you wish it. I will of course work with you still if you wish, but I think your natural talents lie outside of my expertise.”

Something flickered warmly in Samhal’s chest. “I...thank you. We could try that.”

“What would you like to learn?” Quinn’s bass rumble came as a surprise from his lanky frame.

Samhal pursed his lip in thought.

“Teach me to be terrifying.”

The smile that slowly uncurled across Quinn’s face did nothing to soften its angles.

“I can do that.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When they reached Haven, the air was sharp with impending snow, and the ground cruelly hard under the mages’ battered feet. Samhal rode through the gate to a ring of gawking faces, his advisors foremost among them. His horse sidestepped nervously in front of the three as he reined it in. Cullen stared up at him, then back at the line of people still winding down to disappear around the curve of the road.

Samhal shrugged fluidly.

“I got some mages.”


	42. Chapter 42

The arrival of several hundred mages nearly doubled the strange, transient population of Haven, and Cullen found himself tensed for disaster from the moment they arrived. First, there were the sheer overwhelming practical considerations--resources that had been thin were strained to the breaking point. There was no longer any room for civilized separation, and people who had lived their lives in terror of mages would now be bunking with them, ten to a room. Almost to a man, the mages were under-equipped, under-provisioned, and lacking basic skills for life outside the Circles.

Beyond that, though, was the greater fear. Memories that were never very far away made a constant pressure behind his eyes--the humanity dying out of a person’s eyes, flesh bubbling and warping, pain and violation and helplessness. His head was pounding within half an hour of the mages’ arrival and only worsened as they struggled to rearrange the entire camp to accommodate the newcomers and the threatened snow began to fall thickly.

“It’s pure recklessness. This many mages, and so close to the Breach? It’s only a matter of time before the weakest among them succumb and we have abominations tearing through the ranks.”

Leliana glanced up from the tiny note in her hand. “Do you say so? What would you have us do, then? The mages are here as our allies, and our resources are insufficient regardless.”

“I don’t know! The templars have abandoned their duty; I have a bare handful here should the need arise.” Cullen set down the ledger he was carrying with an angry thump, flicking through to the page he needed.

“Commander,” Leliana said, “Have you spoken much with the apostate Solas?”

Cullen frowned at the non-sequitur. “Only a little. Why?”

“He is an interesting man, with interesting ideas, and he leads me to have a thought. I believe you underestimate how strong the soul can be if we feel we are fighting for a glorious cause. In Kirkwall, you saw much of rage and despair, yes? But here, I think, the name of the Herald brings hope and strength. It is our task to help him--to make these people believe that they are fighting for a better day. Do that, and I think you may find yourself surprised.”

He grunted skeptically. “I hope you’re right, for all our sakes.” But he continued his work, pulling men and women with templar training off of duties as well done by those without, and assigning them to be available should the worst happen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Samhal that came back from Redcliffe was, to Cullen’s eye, visibly not quite the same man who had left Haven. The charm, the quick tongue, the sharp smile were all still there, but under that thinning skin, the Herald was...angry? Something akin to anger. Fear. It simmered under the surface, flashed out in startling bursts, seethed and sparked with his frustration as the threatening snow began to fall, complicating everything.

He understood better later that night, after the first mad rush of finding everyone shelter from the weather and food for hungry bellies was over, and the three advisors finally retreated to the War Room. They were joined by Samhal, a grim-faced Cassandra, and a Tevinter man he introduced as Dorian Pavus.

“I don’t really know where to begin,” Samhal said. “Actually, I’d rather not talk about any of this ever again, but that’s not an option.”

What followed, in harshly unadorned words, was a tale of more horror than Cullen could have imagined. Samhal told the story emotionlessly, but Cullen saw the strain in ever muscle. Dorian came in when Samhal’s memory faltered, Cassandra confirmed what she had borne witness to, and papers from a future that had not happened were passed around as further evidence of an enemy far more powerful and destructive than they had ever imagined. Samhal unbuttoned his doublet and, shrugging aside his shirt, showed the still puffy pink scar that cut a trail over one shoulder, an indelible reminder of what had happened.

There were few mirrors in Circles, and Cullen had never paid them much attention, but he thought he recognized the look in Samhal’s eyes all the same. It was the look of a man who had seen things he would pay anything, do anything to avoid seeing again.

No one slept much that night. They were in the War Room late into the night, and the subject was hardly restful. And yet in the early morning, there was Samhal with his watchful shadow Solas, storming around in the snow, calling impatiently for mage and soldier alike. It was such wildly uncharacteristic behavior that Cullen checked himself to be sure he had not fallen into a half-awake dream, but on closer inspection it seemed more likely that Samhal had not slept at all. Yesterday’s kohl blurred around his eyes and strands of hair curled wild over his ears.

Soon even the sky shook off the sleepy lethargy of snow, and Haven buzzed with Samhal’s tension. The selected mages were gathered, clustering together--mages chosen less for total experience than for control and raw power. They studied the Breach with the full spectrum of emotions writ on their faces. Soldiers scrambled into armor and checked their weapons. Those who were not going stood in small clusters, watching everything with worry, watching the pacing Herald. 

By midmorning, though, the procession up to the temple had set out. They wound through the valley like some strange religious procession, hushed and heavy with purpose. Cullen himself led the soldiers. Memories clawed at him and tightened his throat. 

Memory had defaced some of the horror of the Temple, and the sight of it shook him again. The red lyrium crawled against his senses, whispering just below hearing. He had the soldiers braced for demons, but there were none. 

And then they were there, directly under the scar in the sky, where everything had changed for all of them. There was the brief bustle of arranging mages and soldiers for whatever might come, and then suddenly there was nothing more to wait on.

“Are you ready, Herald?” Cassandra paced under the Breach. After a moment, she put her hand on Samhal’s shoulder and repeated the question, more gently. Samhal turned to look at her, and his eyes were huge in his face, his skin grey. His marked hand was held tightly clenched under his elbow, spilling green light across his side.

“We have you,” Cassandra said, almost inaudible. “Whatever you need, afterwards, we will have you.”

After a second’s hesitation, Samhal nodded.

Cassandra turned. “Mages!” she called. “Your attention.”

Then Solas stepped forward, staff raised, suddenly a more commanding figure than he had ever seemed before.

“Focus past the Herald!” he called out. “Let his will draw from you! On my command.”

Samhal raised his arm, slowly. He stood there, hand raised, for perhaps a dozen heartbeats, and then he opened it, and the Anchor flared, straining upwards towards the Breach.

“ _Now!_

One after the other, the mages braced their staves against the ground. Cullen felt magic hum and sing all around him, almost overpowering, a river of magic breaking its banks. The livid rope of the Anchor snaked further and further upwards until, impossibly high, it pierced the scar in the sky. For a second, the entire world seemed to bend inwards on itself, flexing under enormous pressure, and then it snapped back with a deafening concussion. The force of it flung everyone off their feet. He skidded back until one elbow struck a wall hard.

Cullen got back on his feet in time to see Cassandra shouldering past a dazed soldier, scrambling to the prone form at the center of the blast, Solas close behind. Samhal shifted as she reached him, his hand closing around hers as she pulled him into her lap, and something unknotted in Cullen’s stomach.

He looked up and saw nothing but grey sky. Around him, soldiers and mages were cheering in unison, shouting in pure incoherent relief. They had done it. _He_ had done it, Samhal Lavellan, unwilling Herald of Andraste. The Breach was healed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had taken hours for Samhal to recover. He could tell from the shadows laying long outside his window, though time itself had flowed strangely for him. Once Solas’ steady voice had brought him back out of crippling panic, he had already been bouncing back down the valley in Cassandra’s arms. He’d fallen asleep as soon as they’d tucked him in his bed.

When he woke, Cassandra was by his bedside.

“You did it, Samhal.” She smiled. “Solas confirms the heavens are scarred but calm. The Breach is sealed. Your people would be glad to see you well, if you are feeling sufficiently recovered.”

So together they went out, and everywhere he went, they cheered him. He smiled tiredly and took their hands and their praise and tried to believe that the worst was over. Maybe it had been enough, and that future could not come now. Maybe they would live now.

But it wasn’t over, it couldn’t be over, and the celebrations chafed against his raw, abraded spirit. Once they felt he had been properly seen, he and Cassandra retreated to a quieter vantage to watch together, not saying much. Solas was nowhere to be seen, and Samhal wondered sympathetically if the noise of it all had sent him into hiding somewhere too.

“There you are!” Samhal turned towards the deep voice and saw the Qunari, Iron Bull, climbing up to them. “I wondered.”

“Here we are. You caught us. Any luck in the...uhh...Fetid Mire? Something like that?”

“Fallow Mire, but it was certainly also fetid. Did well enough, yeah. Not big on undead, but we got a damn good fight out of some Avvar, and we found your troops.” Samhal watched with lingering wariness as the gigantic man came even with them--or rather, towered over them.

“So, what’s next?”

Samhal exchanged a quick glance with Cassandra. Bull snorted. “I’m big, not blind. You’ve still got plenty of problems, whether you want to talk to me about them or not.”

“We are aware of that, yes, thank you,” Cassandra said in clipped tones.

Iron Bull acknowledged her irritation with a quick grin. “That’s fine, I can talk if you don’t want to. You sealed the Breach. That’s great. Setting aside for the moment that we still don’t know who or what caused the Breach, we’ve got a town full of mages with nowhere to go, the Chantry’s still in shambles, and there are still rifts spitting out demons everywhere. Are your troops going to stick around to protect mages? That’s not why they came. Seems to me you have problems you didn’t have this morning.”

Samhal sighed. “Well what would you do, then?”

“Simple. They need something new to fight for. They need a cause. They need a _leader_.”

“I’m the Herald. That won’t do?”

“Depends what you want. If you ask me, you’ve got an identity problem. Inquisitions are for Chantry problems. Plenty of those right now. The way you’ve let it out, the Herald isn’t part of the Chantry. Herald seals Breaches, fights demons, helps people--that’s great. Everybody loves that. But what about the Chantry problems? You see? That’s two different things, really. You want the Inquisition to do what I assume you originally meant it to do, you need an Inquisitor--and soon.”

Cassandra huffed. “You are perceptive. It is a difficulty, yes. I had intended--” She stopped short, darting a glance at Samhal.

“Intended what?” Samhal asked sharply.

Cassandra glanced around as if hoping someone was coming to save her from her misstep. She sighed. “I had sought a figure people would be glad to follow as the Inquisitor--I searched for Hawke, but she has vanished. Likewise the Hero of Ferelden. And then you appeared…”

“ _Me?_ No. You can’t be suggesting me.”

“And why not? The people love you, they believe you have Andraste’s blessing.”

“ _Some_ people love me. Not Chantry people. You want an apostate elf to tell them all to get in line? How’s that working so far with the templars? Now, _you_...”

“He’s right, you know,” said Bull. “You want real change, you can’t force it from outside. They’ll always be looking for an excuse to tear him down. Right now, he’s doing things everyone wants done, even if they’d rather someone else did them. You want an elf to start telling the Mothers their business, you might see things turn _really_ ugly.”

Cassandra grunted angrily. “But I have no other suggestions.”

“People are going to start thinking why shouldn’t they just go home real soon if you don’t give them something to stay for.”

“Surely for tonight it is enough to celebrate what we have managed already,” Cassandra said, sounding worn. Samhal watched her through narrowed eyes and thought feverishly.

After a moment, Iron Bull shrugged. “Of course. None of my business, anyway. Hey Boss, me and the boys have a cask of Antivan Brandy cracked open. Want some before it’s gone?”

“Hmm? Oh--no, sorry. I’m a bad drinker, and I...actually, I promised someone a game.”

“Have it your way.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Samhal was not surprised to find his Commander alone in the war room, squinting at the map by lantern light.

“I see you’re not celebrating.”

Cullen looked up, surprised. “I don’t have a knack for it, I’m afraid. But surely you should be?”

“I thought maybe something a little quieter for a while. I still owe you a chess game, don’t I?”

Cullen straightened, a smile spreading across his face. “You do, in fact. I have a board in my tent, if that suits you?”

“Not like it’s any warmer in this tomb of a building.” Samhal gestured towards the door.

In his tent, Cullen set the board between them on the cot. He smiled wistfully as he laid out the first of the pieces.

“As a child, I played this with my sister. She would get this stuck-up grin whenever she won--which was all the time. My brother and I practiced for weeks.” He chuckled quietly. “The look on her face the day I finally won.”

“Big family?”

Cullen shrugged slightly. “Two sisters and a brother. Between serving the templars and the Inquisition, I haven’t seen them in years. I wonder if she still plays,” he mused.

The two of them made their opening moves in silence.

“You play with confidence. I would not have thought the Dalish played chess?”

“They don’t. Clan Lavellan has elders who would destroy you in a game of stones though, believe me. I learned chess as part of my training from Madame Cerise--it’s part of the escort package. I’m good at making rich men feel they’ve defeated an adequate opponent.”

Cullen smiled and moved a pawn. “Is that what you intend doing here, then?”

Samhal grimaced at the board. “I don’t know. Do I look like an adequate opponent? Your sister must have been a beast.” 

“Did you...ah. Did you really like your job?”

Samhal chuckled darkly. “Oh, and are we talking about that now?” He grinned at Cullen’s spreading flush. “No, I know. Yeah, I liked it well enough. A job’s a job, and that one was much more to my taste than any other that was available, and paid better.”

“Yes, but…” Cullen trailed off lamely and buried his embarrassment in a sloppy move.

“Were there assholes? Yeah. It’s a job. You’re not going to tell me your job’s got no shitty parts?” 

Cullen laughed, relaxing again. “Certainly not.”

A few more minutes passed amid small talk and Samhal’s increasingly loud swearing as he lost ground steadily. Each new masterpiece of crudity drew a small smirk from Cullen that inspired Samhal to new heights for the next one.

“This one here, then?” Sera’s voice shouted outside, and then, louder, “Cover your bits, I’m coming in!” Thus announced, she tumbled into the tent, flushed and pulling a pretty girl behind her.

“ _Chess?_ I thought at least you lot were jousting for tonsils or something. Shite, I thought you were going to be fun, and here’s you playing tin soldiers with Jackboot!” She pounced, tugging on Samhal’s arm. “Come _on_ , they’re dancing. They tell me you put on a show and I missed it. Come dance--don’t go all priggy on us.” She pulled again on Samhal’s arm.

Samhal rolled his eyes towards Cullen, who looked bemused.

“Do come,” added the girl, all pink cheeks and glossy eyes. “Everyone would love to see you dance!”

Well, that tore it. “Oh, I know they would.” Samhal grinned at Cullen and gestured to the board.

“You can finish losing later, if you’re needed elsewhere. I’m a patient man.” 

“Just for that, you have to come too. Come see me dance, don’t add insult to injury.”

“It’s settled!” Sera grabbed Cullen with her free arm and hauled on both of them.

The area in front of the Chantry had been trampled firm, and a crowd of people cheered and clapped as musicians and dancers matched each other in an energetic and rather slippery reel up and down the packed snow. The sounds of the pipe and drum pulled Samhal along. He darted past shoulders and elbows until he broke through to the musicians. The crowd rippled as he passed, the musicians hesitating, but at a gesture they finished the tune. After a quick whispered conversation, a little drumming on his leg, Samhal was satisfied that they knew what to do.

He stalked into the center of the crowd, head high, and space opened up around him. Striking a pose, he held up one arm imperiously and waited until the noise of the crowd died back. At last, he grinned, and gestured for the musicians. 

The rhythm the drummers set pattered and skipped, uneven at first, but gaining confidence as they found the new pattern. 

Samhal began the steps slowly, controlled and deliberate. He danced steps he had first seen his mother dance, steps his brother had sung for him as he mimicked them, childish and slim, barefoot in the forest. His hands flickered side to side as he twisted and turned, picking up speed.

On the second turning of the rhythm, a voice layered over the drums--ululating over the opening notes, untrained but sonorous, shocking but familiar. Shocked out of his steps, Samhal spun and searched the crowd until he found what he knew he must--his brother. Ilen met his eyes, but kept singing the notes of their Dalish childhood. For a moment Samhal stood still, staring back, and then he nodded and took up the dance again.

He snapped his fingers and flames bloomed, so that as he spun, they drifted out like scarves, catching him in a spiral of fire. Ilen sang words of celebration and welcome, the words for a hunter’s first big kill, and Samhal danced the leaping of the hart, the drawing of the bow, the flight of the arrow. At last, Ilen’s voice rose to the final note. The drums followed, and with one last flourish, Samhal stilled.

Ilen was gone again, through the crowd and away.

Samhal received his applause, and then called for a fast-paced traditional dance. Throwing everything else into the wind, he whirled through the crowd, hand over hand, double left, spin right, until all he cared about was laughing faces and the feel of dancing again after too long.

And then he reached for the next hand, and a tall, pale boy in an absurdly huge hat was standing there, watching him intensely from under shaggy blonde hair.

“There are templars at the gate. They’re very frightened. You need to let them in, they won’t come in unless you let them.”

Samhal stumbled, and the dance eddied awkwardly around him.

“What?”

“She told them to run to you. She said you have the power. He’s coming--you have to hurry.”

“What is it?” Cullen asked, suddenly at his side. “Are you unwell?”

“This boy says--” Samhal looked back at the stranger and blinked. “There was a boy. He’s--where’d he go? Shit. He says there are templars at the gate. ‘She’ told them--what in…” He trailed off. 

“The gate, then.” Cullen set off, Samhal a step behind.

Charter caught them halfway there. “Your Worship, Commander. We’ve brought defected templars from Therinfal, but you need to know--there’s an army coming.”


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so long, I am exhausted and dizzy from writing instead of sleeping, and there are pieces in here that I wrote as much as a year ago. This chapter has sucked the life out of me and I can't believe it's finally written. Here.

Samhal moved so lightly, so supple and graceful in harmony with the drums, that it felt like seeing a piece of him that was only ever hinted before. It was artistry. There were bare echoes in the notes and forms of Elvhenan and so much that had been lost, and if anyone had been watching Solas they might have noted the pensive tilt of his head. How much, he wondered, was the original Dalish, and how much Samhal’s own art? 

Beautiful. The curve of his lips, the dance of his hips, the unfettered smile in his eyes, all beautiful and so alive. Samhal laughed, and there was no bitterness in it, none of the usual sharp edge. _We could just have this. I could make him smile._

Then a human boy--was he quite human? Human and not human?--blocked the way, and the steps of the dance stumbled and broke. 

The smile was gone.

There was a quick exchange of words that Solas couldn’t hear between the boy and Samhal, between Samhal and the Commander, and then Cullen was off on long legs, Samhal scrambling in his wake. Solas followed.

A group of perhaps forty men and women in armor, disheveled and road-worn, clustered tightly under the gate. As they approached, a woman in the front of the group snapped a salute. “Your Holiness, Commander.”

“Ser Lisette,” Cullen replied. “Report.”

“Too little time for a full report, ser. In brief-- We were received without question at Therinfal. Our fears were correct; they were beginning to give red lyrium to the templars. There were those with doubts, chiefly Ser Barris here.” She acknowledged a man beside her with a quick nod, and he sketched a quick bow. “The story gets strange for a bit after that--this boy, Cole--but no time now. In the end, we escaped with those you see, but less than a day in front of the bulk of the templars. Your woman Charter here has been watching our backs, and--”

She broke off as Leliana strode up, trailed by Chancellor Roderick, Mother Giselle, and a half-dozen other worried faces.

“What is this?” snapped the Chancellor. “Have the templars come to their senses at last, then?”

“If only it were so, Excellency,” said the man Ser Lisette had called Ser Barris. He gestured to the thirty or so men and women clustered in the shadow of the gate. “We come in peace, but we are running before many more of our former comrades, and they do not.”

Solas looked immediately to Samhal, fighting the urge to hold him, to find ways no one could follow and take him away. Somehow. But he knew the templars had not come for Fereldan peasants or a handful of Carta and Vashoth mercenaries or even, truly, the mages, though many of them might have thought that their goal. Samhal’s eyes were huge, and Solas could see his chest rise and fall with breaths that came too quickly. He was hardly recovered from sealing the Breach, deeply scarred from his experiences in Redcliffe--how much could he be expected to sustain?

“Is this the Order’s response to our alliance with the mages?” Cullen snarled. “Attacking blindly?”

“Under what banner? Who leads them?” asked Cassandra, pushing through to the front.

“No banner, ser. They make alliance with someone they call the Elder One.”

No, it was too soon. They weren’t ready; he wasn’t strong enough, he couldn’t protect--Samhal’s cold hand slipped into his, and he stepped closer to hide their joined hands in his coat, squeezing tightly.

“I’m sorry,” said Lisette, “but they are at the foot of the mountain by now. We’ve had to run like mad to stay ahead of them, they hardly _sleep_. There’s no hope of getting people off the mountain that way.”

“How many do you estimate?”

“Over two thousand, ser,” replied Charter. She did not say, “too many”, but they heard it well enough.

“Is there a way to the rear?” Ser Barris asked.

Cullen and Leliana exchanged looks. “There are the caves,” Leliana said uncertainly, “but those lead only to the mountain top, there is no path beyond...”

“Our people would die of exposure with nowhere to go,” Cullen snapped. “Herald, have you…” He trailed off at a glance at Samhal’s face. “No choice then. We make a stand. Ring the alarm,” he shouted to the guard at the gate. “To arms! Mother Giselle, the refugees trust you. Take whoever you need, and get them rounded up and into the Chantry. It’s the only half-defensible building we have.”

As the clanging of the alarm bell began above them, Cullen strode off, bounding through the snow. Chancellor Roderick followed, loudly objecting that surely all of this was unnecessary, and the others trailed behind. When they left, three people remained under the gate--one dwarf and two elves.

“Why does it have to be templars,” whispered Samhal, unwittingly echoing Solas’ own thoughts. “I thought...I thought maybe I could be stronger. I’m...not strong.”

“Good thing we have Cassandra, then,” Varric offered. “Didn’t you know? She once killed a drake with pure scorn.” Samhal made a small, lost motion with one hand, eyes unfocused. Varric tried again. “Cassandra Pentaghast, Hero of Orlais, will _disapprove_ at the templars so hard they go home to get fresh breeches.” Samhal stared down the mountain. Varric sighed. “No? Look buddy I don’t have any tea. Your people need you to hold it together. Let’s go see if Curly’s had any unexpectedly brilliant ideas.” 

Solas pulled gently on Samhal’s hand, wanting to do more. “We will not fall, lethallin. We must not, you know this. And so we will find a way.” Samhal searched his face, at last letting go his hand to follow Varric.

The scene in front of the Chantry, so recently joyful, was terrified chaos now. Mother Giselle and the handful of other Chantry sisters struggled to calm refugees and soldiers’ families and herd them into the relative shelter of the Chantry building. Josephine faced some Orlesian popinjay, hands gesturing angrily. Soldiers scrambled, half-drunk and half-armored. The requisitions officer snapped at her underlings, gesturing sharply. At the center of the maelstrom, Cullen bellowed out orders rapid-fire, lieutenants coming and going at a run around him. Nearby, Ser Lisette and Chancellor Roderick were embroiled in a fight, with Ser Barris and his templars hovering awkwardly by, unsure of their place.

“I am the highest ranking _loyal_ Chantry official present. I must speak with them, surely they will parlay.”

“They will _not_ , Your Excellency. With all respect due your position, you are being a fool and a deaf one. I said, the templars no longer serve the Chantry, and their new master cares nothing for your years of service!”

“The red templars went to the Elder One.” The strange boy looked past the argument, straight to Samhal. “You know him? He knows you. You took his mages. They want to hurt you. The anger is inside them, eating them up.”

“Who is this boy?” Roderick scoffed. 

“I am Cole. I can help.”

“Help by remaining silent while your elders speak! The templars have served the Chantry for centuries. I will not abandon hope on the word of an ill-kept child!”

“Your Excellency, he was at Therinfal, he was instrumental--” Ser Barris tried, cutting off when a horn blew from the gate. 

“Enemy sighted, enemy sighted!” came the cry. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At first, it was only a few torches on the furthest reach of the path. Those on the gate squinted down the mountain, breathless. Then the torches began to swarm where there was no path, cresting stone and snow, flowing up the mountain like a river of sparks. There were no formations, no banners, no lines--only a mass of points of light and dark shapes.

“I don’t think they want to talk, Chantry-man,” muttered Varric.

“I...you are right.” Roderick spoke haltingly, dazed.

“Archers to the towers! Buckets to the walls, _now!_ ” bellowed Cullen. “Finish setting those trebuchets! Mages, you are at liberty to strike them as soon as they’re in range. Keep them at range if you can.” 

Samhal trembled violently against Solas’ side. Solas choked on reassuring words that would not be true and promises he could not keep, but kept his face still.

“There is...yes!” Roderick gasped. Cole nodded feverishly, grabbing the Chancellor’s arm. “Yes, yes, tell them! He can help!” “There is a way,” Roderick continued, staring hard at Samhal. “I remember it now. A forgotten path--I found it once, wandering on the summer pilgrimage. I believe...yes, I believe I could find it again. A way further back through the mountains, through the Chantry. The people can escape! She must have shown me! Andraste must have shown me, so that I could tell you.”

Cullen stared at the Chancellor, and then back down the mountain, at the templars surging up the mountain with inhuman speed. “Then go, man! Go! Get the civilians out of here! Have people grab food and blankets if they can, but _run_.”

“And what...what will we do?” Samhal had to repeat it to be heard over the noise. Cullen looked at him, and Solas saw his face soften for a moment.

“We fight. We all fight. Expose yourself as little as possible, Herald, stay safe. Perhaps the Maker will send us another miracle.” Even Cullen didn’t sound as though he believed that. “If only we had more--wait. Fresh snow.” Abruptly, he scrambled off the gate, pelting down the wall, plowing through the snow like a charging hart. Cassandra shouted a question after him into the wind.

“I can help. I will try to help.” Cole leaned down awkwardly, trying to look Samhal in the face.

Samhal stared at him blankly. “All...all those templars.”

“Hey Fox. Fox, buddy. I know what you’re thinking. You know what I’m thinking?” 

Solas watched Samhal’s gaze slowly swing around to Varric. “What?”, he mouthed.

“It’s time to get pissed off.”

“What?”

“Well, you were right, weren’t you? You did everything they asked. You killed demons, closed rifts, sealed the Breach. You gave up everything, you’re skinny, you’re scarred, and you were _right_. In the end someone will always want your head. I’d be pissed. I _am_ pissed. I’d want to make them pay for it.”

Ah. A thing to say that was both true and useful. The dwarf, as always, was full of surprises.

“Pay...for it. How?” Samhal focused on Varric’s face at last. 

“I’d make my head as expensive as I possibly could.”

Astonishingly, Samhal cracked a grin. “It is _really_ good head.”

Varric blinked.

“Worth every copper.”

“Not...where I was going with that.”

Samhal giggled manically. “But we could… _go down_ fighting.” 

Solas shook his head slowly, lips twitching. Cassandra grunted disgustedly, and Varric laughed out loud.

“You ready to dance on some templar skull now, Fox?”

“I guess I can do that.”

“You helped!” chirped Cole. “Strange…”

An arrow hissed through the space between them. “Mother _fucker_!” shouted Samhal. They all threw themselves down behind the palisade, but Samhal popped back up almost immediately and hurled a fireball.

“Kill me to my face, asswipes! I didn’t do all this to get shot by some peon at fifty yards!” Laughing, Varric tugged him down.

Distantly, Cullen bellowed “Fire!”, and the command was echoed up and down the wall, “Fire! Fire at will!” Bows twanged all around them. There was a crack of lightning as one of the mages found her range. More arrows returned, most falling short or striking against the palisade, but near them a soldier fell back with a startled screech.

“Fuck you!” Samhall shouted, hurling another fireball. “Fuck you all!” Solas stood and cooly summoned a bolt of lightning that struck several templars. The first runners were nearly at the wall already. 

As he watched, an archer struck one templar cleanly in the neck, but rather than falling, the man shuddered in place, snarling. After a moment, first one and then another piece of armor bowed and then split as red crystals sprouted through them. Everything human was lost in the transformation, until the creature of red lyrium roared at them, hurling itself toward the wall. Solas struck it with lightning and then ice, both doing as little as Varric’s bolts. At the palisade, the monstrosity simply struck a jagged spike of crystal into the timber, heaving itself upward. Shouting in terror, a soldier stabbed at the remains of its face with a spear. A great crack of ice announced the arrival of Vivienne de Fer, and at last the hulk fell back, dead. 

But already there was another behind it, and another behind that one. Spells flew wildly, but the enemy shrugged them off as often as not. The gatehouse shuddered, and he whirled around to see that another giant creature of red lyrium was uprooting boulders and hurling them at the gate. The enemy had no siege weapons and, he thought, needed none. The wall was intended as much to hold back wild animals as enemies, and would not hold against any concentrated assault. Solas calculated that they had only minutes before this position would be overrun, and there was nothing as strong to fall back to. For it all to end now--no. It could not. The gatehouse shuddered again, and he felt, as much as heard, splitting wood giving under the strain.

Feverish minutes crackling with magic passed. Samhal screamed, and he whirled to find a templar on the ladder, but then the man toppled back, leaving Blackwall calmly freeing his sword at the foot of the ladder. 

A few yards away, a burning section of palisade gave way in a cloud of sparks. Mages danced back from the conflagration, but several Red Templars swarmed through the gap, heedless. The front man let fly with a Smite that Solas could feel the fringes of. The templar fell immediately after, but so did three of the mages. A fourth screamed in rage, the scream transforming into an animal howl halfway through. Solas watched in horror as the mage transformed, twisted into something monstrous, before plowing into the gap. By the time the abomination fell at last, a small mound of smoking corpses ringed the gap in the wall, but the ones behind simply climbed over, implacable.

And then, with a great “crack- _swoosh_ ”, the closest trebuchet fired. They all followed the trajectory of the boulder it hurled, momentarily stilled.

“How the fuck do you miss an entire--oh.”

First, there was just a puff of white as the boulder struck the top of the snowfield that towered over the valley. A second later, a great sheet of snow broke loose with a distant rumble like thunder. At the leading edge of the avalanche, cracks spun out, until the snow ran like water across the entire face of the mountain, rumbling as though the sky was coming apart. Snow flew up in great plumes, obscuring the flow, but the rumble grew louder and louder, shaking the ground, driving out even the sounds of battle. The fighting slowed, and then for a moment nearly stopped as everyone turned to watch the inexorable river of snow flow and crash down towards the valley. As it struck the lower slopes, trees and boulders tore loose to be churned into the onrushing mass. The templar charge turned to a route, as all but the most rage-blinded began to flee from the path of the avalanche, only to be hidden from view as great clouds of snow filled the mountain pass, blotting out the stars.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The all-consuming roar of the avalanche faded and reality slowly filtered back into Samhal’s senses. There were still far too many templars on this side of the snow, but for the moment they were disoriented--cut off and unsure of themselves. A few tried to retreat or rescue their buried fellows, but floundered in the mounds of loose snow. As they realized that suddenly, this might be a winnable battle, mages and soldiers began to shout and cheer all around him. Someone clapped him on the back, and he rocked dazedly under the blow.

“ _That’s dancing on their skulls for you!_ ” laughed Varric, and Samhal turned to him, a smile beginning to bloom.

Then in the same moment, someone screamed, and he heard a strange leathery whoosh. The laughter fell off of Varric’s face, and Samhal turned--just in time to see the fired trebuchet explode into kindling in the blast from a dragon’s maw.

“Shit!” Varric yelled. “Who ordered the end of the damn world?”

The dragon screeched in rage, and it was a sound Samhal had heard before. The Elder One was here.

A hut went up in flaming splinters, and Samhal ducked instinctively. People everywhere were running and screaming. Solas grabbed at his arm, tugging. “We must get to shelter, any shelter.” They ran, and Cassandra ran behind them, shield out as if she could protect them from a dragon blast with it. Behind them, he heard Blackwall bellowing, rounding up soldiers.

Cullen waited at the inner gate, herding fleeing fighters through. “To the Chantry! Get under cover!” As they drew closer, he shouted, “We need everyone back to the Chantry! It’s the only building that might hold against that...beast.” Cassandra nodded, and circled back to collect more of their people. “Take him to the Chantry,” she said, and when Solas took his arm again, he realized who she was talking to. “Keep him safe.”

‘Safe’ was not how the Chantry felt. It had already been serving as makeshift infirmary since the battle began. Now, the terrified crowded in with the wounded. A blast of dragonfire nearby shook the building, and someone whimpered by his elbow.

A handful more soldiers and mages came in after them, Blackwall, Cassandra, and Cullen last of all. Cullen pushed the great doors closed and turned, face grim.

“Herald! Our position is not good. That dragon stole back any time the avalanche gained us.”

Samhal jumped as Cole spoke from right next to him. “I’ve seen an Archdemon. It was in the Fade, but it looked like that.”

“I don’t care what it _looks_ like,” barked Cullen. “It has cut a path for that army. They’ll kill everyone here, and there’ll be nothing to stop them following the rest.”

“The Elder One doesn’t care about the others. He only wants the Herald.”

A little bubble of silence formed, as the battered companions all looked at Samhal.

“Oh. Me.”

“He wants to kill you. No one else matters, but he’ll crush them, kill them anyway. I don’t like him.”

“ _You don’t like--_ ” Cullen cut himself off. Solas’ hand was tight as a steel band around Samhal’s arm. 

At last, Cullen spoke again. “Samhal, I’m sorry. There are no tactics to make this survivable.”

“I know.” Not for everyone, at any rate. Samhal felt calmer than he had in a long time. All the fear, all the confusion fell away. He pulled away from Solas, quietly freeing his arm. Things were so easy when you knew what to do.

“If we can turn the remaining trebuchets, cause a second slide…” Cullen trailed off.

“The enemy is inside the gates,” Cassandra objected. “We cannot hit them unless...the west face. You mean to bury Haven.”

“If we could only ground the dragon, we could get these men and women out of here, but we don’t dare expose ourselves with it in the air. What I wouldn’t give for ballistas.”

“He’ll come to me.”

“Herald--”

“He’ll come to me. Set the trebuchet and run. Signal when you’re clear, and I’ll fire it.”

“But what of your escape?”

Samhal smiled. “It’s alright. It doesn’t matter.”

Cullen’s face fell. “Perhaps...you will surprise it. Find a way…”

“I will go with you,” announced Cassandra.

“Count me in,” added Varric. 

Samhal’s calm slipped slightly. “No! No, that’s not the point! You’re supposed to live!”

“I am coming.”

“No! No, please, Solas, no, not you. Don’t make me see it again, he only wants me.”

“Fox, you won’t make it five minutes without backup, I’m sorry. If you want to get the dragon’s attention you have to survive the templars long enough. Look, this isn’t even my second dragon. I’m good.”

Samhal snarled, cornered.

“I come as well,” said a Dalish voice.

“Fuck! Fuck, Ilen, why are you always here when I least want you?”

“I am always here. It’s not my fault if city life’s given you weak shem eyes.”

“Well you’re not going! You don’t get to make me feel guilty by dying for me! You don’t get that! It won’t fix anything you fucking idiot!”

“I’m not fixing anything. I’m protecting you. Like I always should have. And I am coming.”

“You’re all suicidal idiots and I hate you! Fuck! No one else. No, Dorian, shut up, I see your mouth. Shut up. You’re running, and you’re tracking down the Venatori. You’re supposed to live! You’re all supposed to live!”

“Not dead yet,” said Varric calmly.

“ _Fuck_ you! Just hurry up.”

As Cullen assembled a siege engine team, Cassandra collected what healing potions she could find and Varric fiddled with a nicked pin on Bianca. Samhal stood rigidly by the door until Cullen returned with the siege team.

“They’ll load the trebuchet and aim it. Keep the Elder One’s attention until we’re above the tree line, then we’ll send up a flare. I--Andraste shield you and keep you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Chantry door opened on a Haven in flames. Buildings burned everywhere. They encountered resistance almost immediately, but it was disorganized--the bulk of the templar force must still be navigating the new snow field. Samhal walked through the fighting almost blindly, his companions dealing death around him, as he watched the skies. An arrow got through, slicing along his thigh. A second later the archer died, an ironbark arrow through his eye. Samhal moved on, hardly noting the wound.

“Where is he?”

“Worry about the trebuchet first.”

At last the trebuchet was set, the soldiers fled back towards the Chantry. Still the Elder One had not shown.

“Leave now. I know what to do.” Samhal raised his hand, and green light began to pour out.

“We will see this through together. I will not let you sacrifice yourself so easily!”

“I’ve done what you wanted. Everything else will be better done by someone else. By you. And I can do this, so you live.”

“We will not leave you,” Cassandra repeated stubbornly.

The sound of enormous wings filled the night air. Samhal’s upraised hand was a towering beacon of crackling energy.

“Go! _Go!_ I won’t see you die again. _I’m not worth it!_ ” It was a scream, desperate, and yet no one moved. 

Eyes blurring, he reached down inside himself, and drew up everything his new teacher had showed him in their time together. He drew up his terror and his rage and his seething loss until it boiled out of him like poison, and then he flung it at them.

“ _GO!_ ” The word crackled and hissed, warping and booming. Ilen turned at once and fled. Varric stepped back once, twice, but Cassandra shook her head doggedly, skin grey with fear. “ _Run! RUN!_ ” Cassandra and Varric broke, turning back up the mountain.

Only Solas remained, and his eyes were unshadowed by the spell.

“You have to go,” Samhal begged.

“Yes. Ar lath, ma vhenan.”

“Vhenan…” Samhal turned the word over, but an earsplitting shriek from above broke the moment. “Go.”

Solas turned, and shimmered blue for an instant before bounding away, almost flying across the snow.

Something massive struck the ground behind him, and Samhal turned to face it, alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dragon prowled, snorting, sniffing at Samhal with a force that ruffled his coat, teeth as long as Samhal’s hand bare feet away.

“Pretender.” The voice rasped behind him, clawing at his memory. He turned and immediately began backing away from the figure he saw there--tall, impossibly tall, with a twisted face and flesh that seemed impossibly entangled with cloth and bone. “You toy with forces beyond your ken. No more.”

The dragon’s breath ruffled his hair, and Samhal tried to slip sideways, but a curling tail blocked his path.

“Know me. Know what you have pretended to be. Exalt the Elder One, the _will_ that is Corypheus.” The nightmare reached out a long, taloned hand. “You will kneel.”

“No.” Samhal shook his head doggedly.

“You will resist. You will always resist. It matters not.” From somewhere Samhal couldn’t see, Corypheus produced a carved orb, over which little bolts of red energy sparked and shimmered. Samhal watched, intensely aware of the dragon at his back. “I am here for the Anchor. The process of removing it begins now.”

He reached out, and Samhal’s hand flared agonizingly. Corypheus closed his hand, and the Mark strained towards him, pulling Samhal along. Samhal struggled, wrenching back, straining away, but his feet slipped in the snow and slowly he inched towards those monstrous hands.

“It is your fault,” Corypheus spat. “You interrupted a ritual years in the planning, and instead of dying you stole its purpose. I do not know how you survived, but what marks you as ‘touched’, what you flail at rifts, I crafted to assault the very heavens.”

“You…” Samhal strained, struggling to keep his distance. “You made this?”

“It is mine.” Corypheus closed his hand, and pain stabbed through Samhal’s hand, down his bones, shooting through his body. Red light mixed nauseatingly with the green. Samhal fell, screaming, and Corypheus snatched him up by the wrist. He felt something give in his shoulder, and pain shot through him again. Samhal’s consciousness flickered. The breath in his face was foul beyond imagining as Corypheus rambled on. 

He couldn’t see the Chantry--what if he had missed the flare? What if he passed out before firing the trebuchet? Scrabbling with his feet, he pushed desperately against Corypheus, twisting with all his strength. His shoulder screamed at him.

“Your friends cannot help you now.”

Samhal laughed weakly and pushed again, straining to see up the valley. Corypheus shook him, and something popped in his elbow. “Be still!” He snarled, and hurled Samhal away. Samhal struck the edge of a low wall and felt ribs snap before he rolled down, head bouncing off a projecting stone. His vision blackened again, and he clung to consciousness.

“The Anchor is permanent. You have spoiled it in your stumbling,” Corypheus’ voice said in the blackness. “So be it. I will begin again, and find another way to give this world the nation--and god--it requires.”

Samhal opened his eyes and a soft smile spread across his face. He lay in a twisted heap--with a perfect view of the mountain behind Haven--and the last sparks of a bright red flare spell.

It was enough. He raised a trembling hand.

“You talk too much.” He cleared his throat, spitting blood. “Start a journal or something, nobody gives a shit.”

His fireball just missed Corypheus. 

“Pathetic. You still think to fight? You cannot--” Behind Corypheus, the restraining rope burned through and snapped back on itself, and the great weight of the trebuchet plunged down. For a few seconds, the only sound was the creaking of the trebuchet as it rocked to a halt, and then Samhal heard the distant boom as the payload struck the mountainside.

“Suck a dick,” Samhal mumbled, and smiled as his eyes rolled up in his head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Want to hear a funny story? Once upon a time there was a little knife-ear who thought he could match strength against an immortal magister and save the world.” The light, cultured voice paused, as if considering. “That’s it, really. That’s the whole story. Probably.”

Samhal lay on the rocky ground of his Free Marches childhood, stained by sunset. Tears of pain ran out of the corners of his eyes and soaked the hair at his temples. Above, a man stepped into his line of vision—nondescript, brown hair, brown robes, darkly shadowed eyes. Samhal gazed up at him numbly. The man smiled, incongruously cheerful. 

“You’ve failed, you know. You think you’ve changed the future? I hate explaining a good joke, really spoils it, but that’s the funny part. You’ve changed nothing. The Rift was nothing. A misfire. So long as your enemy lives, your friends will still all die. It will all happen again.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that. There is a way. I can show you.”

“Demon.” Samhal’s whisper was barely audible. “You lie.”

“Rude. Why lie when the truth is so much more interesting? I’m offering you a chance! A choice. What could possibly be worse than what already is?”

Even in dreams, every breath was agony. Samhal stared at the other man, silent.

“Decide now. The end of your world, or a little tiny favor for me, to be determined at a later date. You only have seconds.” There was a lilting sing-song to the words.

Samhal blinked, and another fat tear slipped free.

“Help…me.”

The man smiled and reached down, touching Samhal’s forehead. “That’s the spirit.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Samhal rocketed back to agonizing reality with a wracking cough. With his good arm, he clawed himself upright. He touched a hand to a bleeding split on his arm, and knew what to do as though the knowledge had always been there.

When he drew his hand away, the blood followed, spooling out in streamers. Filaments of blood wound out of the arrow wound in his thigh, the gash on his forehead. He reached out further and drew ribbons of blood from the bodies around him, corrupted templars and Inquisition soldiers alike feeding the magic. All of these tendrils reached and twined, seeking blindly, until they found the shimmering blue barrier around Samhal and flowed over it, tangling together. 

The avalanche hit just as the last gap closed.


	44. Chapter 44

It wasn’t so hard, after all, to follow the trail of the fleeing Inquisition. Much easier than melting his way out of the snow to reach the Chantry, even with the blood fueling his every step. The tracks of the sledges and the deep, dragging prints of the animals were clearly visible even in the newly falling snow. Snow, again. When had his life become a barren hellscape of snow, snow, always snow? He passed a beautifully carved chair, a hastily-tied bundle, a lockbox--bits of people’s lives, too heavy to hold on to. As he left the battlefield behind, the first rush of energy seeped out of him until at last he was left with only himself, broken and freezing, alone. 

It would be easy to give up.

But then it would all be pointless. So he kept moving.

He cupped a small flame against his chest with his good hand, a single point of warmth. His toes curled in his boots, his feet felt like stumps of wood that his burning thighs dragged through the snow again and again, mindlessly. Blood froze his eyelashes together.

The flame in his hand guttered, and he dug deeper, pulling on his last reserves to sustain it. How far could they have gone? Shit--when had he lost the trail? Time had lost meaning. He tried to reorient, to imagine a logical gap in the mountains, but everything looked the same.

The flame flickered and went out.

Bent nearly double, he staggered forward, and fell. Pulling himself up hurt as much as anything in his life ever had, but he did it. They would die. They couldn’t die, not again. Nearby, wolves howled, but he couldn’t find the energy to care. One foot in front of the other, over and over again. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else existed.

He fell again, and the snow was soft, so soft. He could spare a minute. Just a minute to rest. Soft like thick fur, like a blessed embrace. Warm. Just a few minutes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Solas watched the humans fight with his jaw clenched until it ached. All for this, and this was all he had. Squabbling infants. There had to have been another way. ‘Ar lath, ma vhenan’--he’d had the _gall_ to say it. Empty words, if they changed nothing. Every time he thought he had learned to carry his guilt, he discovered new burdens.

“We have to go back!” shouted Cullen. “Perhaps he is alive! There might be a way, any way…”

“He is not! Nothing could have survived that. We have...to accept…” Cassandra choked.

“It is unlike you to give up hope! Perhaps some trick of magic--”

“Magic! What do you think he did, cause the snow to _stumble?_ No. We abandoned him and he is lost to us! Do not taunt me with false hope!”

“Please,” Josephine begged for the dozenth time. “Please, everyone is watching. They need to see us united now.”

“Why?” Cassandra snarled. “What does it matter? What are we now? Exactly what he thought us that first day, cowards in search of a sacrifice.”

Solas turned away as a thread of consciousness reached out to touch his own, shutting them out to focus. Not a thought, nor yet quite an image. Impressions. The scent of blood. A small body, marked with friend-magic. Shallow breath.

He buried his face in his hands, taking long breaths to compose himself. Breath. He was still breathing. He turned back to the fight, steeling himself to calmness. _Keep him warm,_ he thought. _Please keep him warm._

Aloud, he said, “I agree with the Commander. If there is even a chance, would we not regret having not sought him? Let those with enough energy follow the trail back some way. He has always surprised us before--why not now?”

Cullen looked up at the unexpected support. Cassandra threw up her hands, turning away. Nearby, Ilen stood from where he had sat motionless, watching.

“We will search.” Cullen nodded to himself. “Volunteers, I need volunteers!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Samhal drifted, his body distant, used up, unimportant. Someone intruded, calling to him insistently, noisy, distracting, tugging, babbling. “Lethallin, ma lethallin, Little Kit I’m here. June, protect your ward, Mythal save him, oh gods look at you, oh gods. _Help_ , somebody help, please somebody help.”

More voices joined the first. “Maker’s breath, is he alive? How is he alive? Quickly, help me get him up.” The world upended itself. A dozen wounds screamed at him, but couldn’t pierce the cloud of his indifference. His head lolled against something soft, and the world rocked, rocking him back into dreamless darkness

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pain. Everything was pain.

After a moment, he realized that it wasn’t even a physical pain, which was strange. Maybe he wasn’t physical?

He tried to move and couldn’t. His mind flailed with a confused array of options--he was dead, he was in the Fade, he was alive but somehow frozen? But he wasn’t cold… After a moment, he realized that he was weighed down with blankets--ordinary blankets, scratchy against his neck. Something heavier lay over his legs awkwardly. Everything smelled of pine, resinous and sharp and _real_. 

Experimentally, he opened his eyes. It took a few tries, but at last they unstuck themselves enough for him to see. He was in a tent, on a rough pallet of pine boughs. Straining, he lifted his head and identified the weight over his legs as his brother, asleep slumped over. Solas, curled up on a blanket nearby, opened his eyes the moment Samhal found him.

“Praise the Maker. You wake.” Mother Giselle’s face loomed over him, and then moved away. She came back with a wooden mug. Cupping his head to lift it, she offered the mug. Samhal drank a little warmed water and then coughed, soaking his chin. Ilen woke and scrambled back, sitting crosslegged in a corner to watch.

“How…?” he rasped.

“Your brother found you, and the Commander carried you to camp. You were in a very bad way.” Samhal tried to roll onto his side but only managed an ungraceful sort of wiggle. “You need to rest,” said Mother Giselle.

“Rest! Did everyone get away? Where is everyone? Where are we?” Samhal paused to wheeze, and accepted another drink of water before continuing. “Did the templars follow? Where’s the Elder One? Where’s the dragon? Surely I...didn’t get it, it’s still out there--”

“Calm yourself. You have succeeded, yes. You bought us the time we needed. There has been no sighting of the dragon, and the templars have not followed.”

“Probably think I’m dead. Why do I feel like…” he stopped, at a loss for words. “All burned up, only not.”

“I imagine you are mana fatigued,” Solas said. “The energy you must have expended to make it so far in that condition…” He sighed. “It might have killed you. You might never have woken. As you are awake now, I believe it should ease with time. One hopes.”

“Is that…” Samhal breathed. “...why they’re yelling at each other so much?”

They all paused to listen to the irate conversation filtering through the walls of the tent.

“We have to move!” came Cullen’s voice. “We cannot stay here.”

“Moving him may be fatal! He could still wake, any time.” That was Cassandra.

“He is as well as the healers can make him. Physically, he is whole,” Leliana said.

“We will all starve if we don’t freeze. The templars are on half-rations, we’ve little but barley to eat, people can’t keep taking tents in shifts, sleeping like this wears them down.”

“And where do you propose we take them?”

“I don’t know! Forward. They need hope.”

“They need a leader!” Cassandra snapped. No one seemed to have any response to that, and the argument lapsed into cold silence.

Mother Giselle smiled gently. “The people are not the only ones who need hope. Your advisors flounder without you. You are their hope.”

“Then they need...a stronger hope.” Samhal closed his eyes.

“And perhaps you will find it for them. Shall I tell them you are awake?”

“No, just pour me into a bucket, I’ll do it. Gotta go...look pretty…”

He could have sworn that in the corner of his vision Ilen almost smiled for a second.

Between them, Solas and Ilen got him on his feet. Rather, his feet were in the vicinity of the ground, but only bearing about enough of his weight so that it didn’t look like they were dragging him between them. It would have to do. 

The Mark was anything but divine, and they deserved to know. They deserved to know what they faced.

“Get it over with,” he said. Mother Giselle smiled that obnoxiously serene smile of hers and pushed back the tent flap.

Cassandra noticed first, and froze, map in hand. Josephine looked up, eyes kindling. A susurrus of excitement went through the camp, people turning from their work, looking up from their despair.

“Samhal! Herald!” Cullen exclaimed, and then seemed to have nothing more to say.

And then, incongruously, Mother Giselle began to sing. Her voice was rich, but thin against the wind and snow. It was a strange sound, in the ragged huddle of tents, in the darkening dusk.

“Shadows fall, and hope has fled. Steel your heart, the dawn will come.”

He recognized the words from a song that had been popular in Tantervale. What was she doing?

“The night is long, and the path is dark--look to the sky, for one day soon, the dawn will come.”

Leliana joined first, her voice surprisingly high and pure. Others joined, then--apparently the song’s popularity held well beyond Tantervale. By ones and twos and then dozens, voices joined--some off-key, some rumbling monotones, but together they all held the melody.

“Bare your blade, and raise it high. Stand your ground, the dawn will come…” As they sang, Samhal saw them straighten. He saw eyes light that had been dim. He saw the strength the song gave them. People began to kneel around him. 

All it made him feel was tired. So horribly tired. Tired of being cold. Tired of hurting, of being afraid, of being strong. Tired of surviving. Tired of being a _lie_ , everything a lie, every moment a lie. 

The last notes of the song ended, and still everyone was still, waiting for him to say something.

“Well, I--” he cleared his throat. “We’re alive. I’m alive. Thank you for being alive.”

It made no sense. It would have to do.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shortly, he was in his tent again, swathed again in blankets that stank of sweat and lanolin. His companions were very carefully selected--they could decide who else needed to know later. For now, only his advisors, Cassandra, Solas, and Dorian. They knew about Redcliffe, and they needed to know about this. 

Varric slipped into the tent a minute late, cradling a stoneware mug. Shouldering through the others, he held it out. “Here, get the throat in shape for talking.” Samhal, sniffing, took it.

“Rivaini tea? Varric, how…?”

“Grabbed it in the scramble. Thought you might appreciate some, if we made it out. There’s not a lot, so if you want more than another pot we have to get out of this Maker-forsaken nowhere.”

“Varric, I--”

“I can stand it no longer!” burst out Cassandra. “Tell us, how did you survive?”

Samhal stopped breathing. In his hand, the tea made tiny concentric circles with the pounding of his heart. He looked around at them all--Cassandra’s eager face, Dorian’s open curiosity...the Sword of Mercy on Cullen’s bracers.

“I...luck. Luck. There was a root cellar. I...took shelter and used a barrier.”

Cassandra smiled. “I should never have doubted you. You always find a way.”

“It doesn’t matter. Never mind. _The Elder One_ is the important part. It’s been the Elder One all along. The Elder One caused the Breach. He made the Mark. Not Andraste. This--” he held up his hand “--is the work of some creepy ghoul with rocks in his head, not the Maker. And I’m Herald of nothing.” 

The lesser confession eased the guilt slightly.

“I will not dismiss prophecy so readily,” said Cassandra. “Samhal, whatever else has happened, you were no part of his plan. It was not his will that put the Mark on your hand.”

“No, just my shockingly shitty luck.”

“Well I, for one, am exceedingly grateful for your shitty luck, given what we know of the alternative,” said Dorian. “I quite understand why you might not feel very fortunate at the moment, but you mucking up this Elder One’s plans appears to be the only reason we’re all still here, whether you believe the Maker arranged it or not.”

“All of which matters less than defeating him,” said Leliana. “This is the first time we have faced our enemy directly. What have we learned?”

“I’m getting there!” Samhal scowled, thinking. “Right so I was not...in top shape. At first I thought maybe the Elder One _was_ the dragon. He’s...person shaped. Not like anything I’ve seen. He’s got red lyrium embedded in his face. Enormously tall. Not like Cullen-tall. Like taller than human tall, but gaunt. His skin is all...twisted up. His hands are like great big claws. 

“But he talked. I don’t remember it all. He talked about assaulting the Heavens, about giving the world a god. He wasn’t really talking to me, mostly, I think. He called this the Anchor. Said he’d been planning it for _years_. He said a name. I think it was a name…’the will that is Co...Cor…’ Shit, it sounded Tevinter. Cornelius? No.”

“Not _Corypheus_.” There was something heavy about Varric’s voice that made them all look his way.

“Yes! Corypheus. Wait, how did you know that?”

“Corypheus! Varric, not the creature you encountered in the Vimmarks? You assured me it was dead!” Cassandra cried. “You said it was of no import!”

“Corypheus. Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit…” Varric hunched down, hugging his arms tight and muttering to himself. Everyone watched tensely. Finally, he sat up again, sighing. “You said tall? Really tall, with talons, all bony. Stones coming out of his face, like this?” He made a sweeping gesture out from the side of his face.

“Yes! What is it? What’s going on, Varric?”

“Shit shit shit shit shit shit he _was_ dead, Seeker, I’m telling you. We _killed_ him, we definitely--he was dead. Shit shit, oh Hawke, what did we do?”

“Varric? Cassandra?” Cullen growled. “If you know something, we must hear. You have encountered this Corypheus before?”

Varric sighed, and squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes. Yeah, we’ve met. I told Seeker about it during the interrogation, I just didn’t... I was fairly sure we’d never meet again, considering we left him with his creepy-ass ribcage crushed and half his head missing. He was--sorry, _is_ \--a magister. One of _the_ magisters, the ones that broke into the Golden City.”

“ _WHAT?_ ” Dorian and Cullen spoke at the same time. “That’s impossible,” Leliana said. “No one lives that long.”

“No one lives through having his head stoved in, either. But here we are.”

“Explain,” Leliana said.

Varric massaged his temples for a moment, and if Samhal was any judge, he was making a few quick calculations about how to edit his story. “It was...what, four years ago? Alright, this is a couple years before the Kirkwall Circle fell apart. Things were almost peaceful, until Carta dwarves started coming after Jeannie--Hawke, that is. They even went after Carver in some Warden stronghold, which is when he came to us. They were acting weird, saying stuff about the uh--” he glanced around awkwardly, then sighed. “The blood of the Hawke. So we tracked them down to their hideout in the Vimmarks.” 

Varric’s voice lacked the usual cadence of the storyteller--he told the tale simply, almost disjointed.  
“It was...a shitshow. Dwarves acting out of their heads. Even saw an old acquaintance--I won’t say friend--but even though he was a strange nug-licker he was never _that_ strange before. They’d been drinking darkspawn blood! ‘The Master’ told them to. And all of them were after the blood of the Hawke, but they didn’t seem too fussy about keeping it inside the Hawke. They wanted it for their ‘master’--Corypheus. I’d never get the name wrong, we heard it over and over.

“Back of the Carta hideout, we got cornered. We ended up trapped in this old Warden prison, going deep underground. Sealed in, with magic. With darkspawn.”

“You left out the key,” Cassandra interjected.

“Damn, Seeker, who’s telling this story! Yes, okay, one of the Carta bosses had this sword… _key_...thing...that reacted when Carver picked it up. Bonded with him or something. Blood of the Hawke. But that doesn’t really matter ‘til later.

“So there we were, trapped underground with darkspawn, which I don’t need to tell you is not my idea of a vacation. But a...Warden found us. Half a Warden, maybe. Half darkspawn more like. The former Warden-Commander, Larius. He told us that anything could come in, but to get out we’d have to go down to the heart of the prison and unlock the seals. It--” He sighed and sat back. “They tried to leave the seals, I swear! Jeannie and Carver agreed, we’d find another way out! When a new Warden--Janeka, her name was--came and told us that she wanted to free him, to use him, they said no. We fought her. But the--the disturbance was too much, I don’t know, I don’t understand this ancient magical shit. Larius said we’d have to free him and kill him, or he’d wake on his own. Carver heard him, he said. Corypheus. Heard him calling, like the other Wardens.”

“Wardens hear him?” Leliana cut in.

“Larius said anything with a connection to the Taint would hear him, like they hear Archdemons. The Tainted dwarves, the darkspawn, the Wardens… Well. The rest is short enough. We used the key and broke the last seal. Corypheus came popping out, demanding we bend knee to Tevinter, calling to Dumat. He didn’t realize that a thousand years had passed. ‘The City’, he said, ‘it was supposed to be golden! It was supposed to be ours!’ I don’t know. Larius thought he was one of the Magisters Sidereal. Now, Larius was definitely a few shots short of a party but the way Corypheus talked--’I seek the light’, stuff like that. I believed it then. I don’t know, maybe he’s not--”

“No, he is,” Samhal said heavily. “He said so. I didn’t follow then, but he said it. He said he once breached the Fade. And that the Mark was meant to do it again. But not for his god, this time. He means to _be_ the god, this time.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They left, after--to give him his rest, to deal with the news each in their own way, to see to the work of keeping those in their charge alive. Solas stayed--to keep an eye on the Mark while Samhal’s own mana was depleted, he said. Once they were alone, though, he turned to Samhal, face intent.

“Did Corypheus bear an orb--it would be about--” 

“I made a deal with a demon.” 

Solas’ mouth froze open for a moment. 

“ _What?_ ” 

“I didn’t just get lucky. I didn’t take cover in any cellar. I made a deal with a demon--I did blood magic. I don’t want to lie to you, at least. Now they think it’s even more divine intervention, and it’s not, it’s horrible. Please, if you leave me, just don’t tell--” 

“ _When?_ ” 

Samhal hissed in frustration. “After I set off the avalanche. I just...look, if you’re going to leave me now, I need to know, I need to know!” Samhal’s voice shook so hard over the last words that he nearly didn’t make it through. He bit his lips until he tasted copper. 

Solas stared at him for a horrible minute, and then sat back, momentarily covering his eyes with his hand. “Vhenan. My affection is not so fragile, rest yourself. But please, it is very important that I understand the situation better. What, precisely, happened?” 

_My affection is not so fragile_. Samhal sucked in a deep breath, steadying himself. “I...uh...well, I fired the trebuchet. Corypheus threw me, and then I fired it, and I...I passed out, I guess. And next thing I know, I’m in the Fade, and this man is talking to me.” 

“A man? You are certain? In the form of someone you have known, then?” 

“Um, no...look, I was _dying_ , I don’t remember that well, but he was just a man, a...a human.” He could see Solas filing that away, to turn over later. The tiny shifts of his face were so familiar now. They soothed him.

“And what did he say?” 

“I don’t--he seemed to think it was funny. He said I hadn’t saved anyone, that my sacrifice was pointless if I died.” Samhal stopped again to breathe, slowly and deliberately, holding each breath for a moment as Solas himself had taught him. “He said he could help me.” 

“How? How would he help you?” 

“Well, he didn’t...I don’t think he actually said. Just that he could help me and I had to decide. I called him a demon. ‘Rude’, he said. ‘Rude’, like that. Look, I...maybe he wasn’t really a demon? But if the Maker--even if the Maker was real, he wouldn’t send people to teach me blood magic, would he?” He looked hopefully at Solas, who studied him with an almost frightening focus. “What? Don’t just stare at me, fuck!” 

Both men looked away. Solas shook his head slightly. 

“I would not look to the Maker in this. Perhaps not a demon, but certainly something very dangerous. Not a simple spirit. Please, go on.” 

“Well, I was dying. I was going to die, and then you were going to die, he said. I know he might have been lying, but I believed. I couldn’t let it happen. Anything, you said. Remember what’s at stake, remember what you must prevent. So I said ‘help me’. And he just... touched me. And I woke up, and I knew what to do. It’s all in there, Solas. Like my own memories. I know so much, so many horrible things. I _remember_ them.” 

“What did you promise, Samhal? It is urgent that we know exactly what you promised.” 

“I didn’t promise anything. A favor, he said. I’d owe him a favor. I know, I know it’s a terrible deal, alright?” he babbled, cringing at the look on Solas’ face. “I _know_.” 

Solas sighed, slumping back exhaustedly. “And then you knew blood magic?” 

“Knew, know. I want it out of my head! I never wanted this! I remember...I remember the vilest things, Solas. Creators. My head is full of nightmares. So much blood. And I knew the things to do, like he put the ideas there. I started with my own blood, but it took more and more and more blood. There was blood everywhere, and I took it. They weren’t all dead, Solas. And I took their blood, and I felt their lives in it. They filled me up, and then they died. I felt them die.” His voice rose sharply, and he tried to stop it, but the words bubbled out like blood. “I took their lives, their _lives_ , and I felt them wink out. I wanted to throw up, oh Creators, I still want to throw up.” He clawed weakly at his scalp, pulling at his hair. “Creators, Creators, I want them out--” 

Solas caught him, gently disentangling Samhal’s fingers, stroking over them with the pads of his thumbs. “Vhenan, look at me. Look here. You are not a monster.” 

“I am. I always was.” 

“ _You are not a monster_.” 

“ _It felt good_ , Solas. It made me sick, but it felt good, it filled me up.” 

“And still you are not a monster. You made a choice, one I cannot fault. You did it for pure reasons. You did what you felt you had to. Whatever consequences come, remember that the alternative was not acceptable.” 

Samhal watched Solas, and Solas met and held his eyes unflinching. When it was too much, Samhal closed his eyes. Tears escaped the corners. 

“I’m so tired.” 

“Then rest.” 

He felt Solas’ hand smooth away the tear tracks and brush the hair off his temples. He tried to hold onto the feeling, but instead everything drained away, and he drifted off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My description of the ‘process’ and sensations of learning blood magic from a spirit, ‘download’ style, was drawn from Last Flight. There IS some element of headcanon here (chiefly, that you learn what the spirit in question knows/chooses to share, so the knowledge gained, the amount of it, and the nature of the memories might vary by spirit), but basically, the idea that it comes as a set of memories, accessible like any other memory and indelible, is from Last Flight. And the idea that, ahem, *certain* spirits can manipulate and alter memory, as when Samhal wakes up already knowing what to do, comes from The Masked Empire.


	45. Chapter 45

Samhal woke stiff and still tired, still aching with the pain that was not a pain. He lay, staring up at the canvas, mind blank, until he realized that he needed to relieve himself, and he wouldn’t be able to do it on his own. Herald of Andraste, prophesied by Drakon, the hero between the world and an immortal darkspawn, and he’d need to be helped to the chamber pot. That part probably wouldn’t make it into Varric’s books.

After the chamber pot came the healers, checking over each fresh scar for signs of trapped infection, poking and prodding his ribs, peering into his eyes, demanding that he flex his elbow and rotate his shoulder to see if bone and tendon had ended up back where they were meant to be. After the healers came thin gruel and a mug of tea and advisors, hoping for him to tell him something they didn’t already know, to show them the way, to be something he wasn’t.

“The nearest Orlesian city is Jader, but that’s still over a week’s travel with this lot, and our welcome is unlikely to be warm. Ferelden has even less to offer nearby, and the mages are exiled there. If it comes to that or starving, though…” Cullen shrugged.

Leliana looked at the map, which lay out of sight from Samhal’s pallet. “Orzammar’s main entrance is not marked, but it should be only a few days march. They might at least provide some food, but I have heard little from Orzammar recently, and they will certainly not let us in.”

“There is a place that waits for a force to hold it.” Solas spoke quietly, as usual, but everyone turned at his words. “There is a place where the Inquisition can build...grow…”

“Where, Solas? Anything!”

“Perhaps a day and a half’s travel to the north, a little west. The structure there now is an abandoned Fereldan fortress, but its roots are much older. The world has forgotten, but it was once called Skyhold.”

“Skyhold.” Samhal turned the word over. “And no Orlesian nobles are going to show up to tell us to get off their property?”

“No one has laid claim to Skyhold in long years.”

“Then please--show us the way, Solas. Take us somewhere safe.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They nestled Samhal into a nook in the back of one of the few sledges, bundled in furs and blankets, propped up when he could manage, so that he could see what passed. Always in front of him was the swaying rump of the bronto that pulled the sledge, but beyond that, Cullen, Cassandra, and Solas, leading the people forward to their new hope. Behind him, the people spread out, trailing back through the pass.

Samhal settled into his slowly-moving nest and leaned his head back to stare at the cloudless sky, and he thought. 

He thought about hope. He thought about gods and magisters, about brothers and choices and fear and why people hope and why people despair. People came and went, asked him if he needed anything and accepted his short answers, and he went on thinking. 

He thought about monsters and what made them monstrous, about blood on his hands and blood in the air, pools and basins and rivulets of blood, and memories that weren’t his but felt as familiar as his own. Very far back in his mind and momentarily, he thought of ash in the air and flaming hair and purple light around his hands, and then he closed that line of thinking and locked the door. 

He thought about leadership, about faith, about having it and about inspiring it. He thought about what difference he was meant to make, why _him_ , particularly him, why one small, tired, and increasingly scarred elf made such a difference, what he was needed to do. He thought about faith. He thought as the sun traveled down the mountains, and then he cried quiet, tired tears where no one could see, and then he dried them, and sat up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He asked for Ilen first. 

“You found me.”

His brother watched him warily, perched on a barrel in the back of the sledge.

“I did.” Ilen sighed. “There were tracks. Wolf tracks. When I found you they were everywhere, all around you, but I must have frightened them away in time.”

Samhal cursed quietly, once, and then hesitated.

“Why did you come after me? To Haven, I mean. Why now? I could have died in an alley anytime in the last seven years and been nothing but lost profit, and you didn’t come then.”

“Well, I can’t go back. I can’t fix then, I can only do what I think is right now. I can’t go back and leave with you when you left. Is that what you wanted?”

“You could have watched me go. You could have _looked_. You could have been sad, angry, glad… anything.”

Ilen studied his hands. The bronto snorted and chuffed, plodding through the snow.

“I was. All of those things.”

Samhal let his head fall back against the blankets.

“I’m tired, Ilen. I’m so very tired. And I’m tired of hating you for not being what you never were. I’m done. You can stop hiding from me. But don’t--” Samhal breathed in until his chest twinged, and then held it. “Don’t act like being my brother makes us something special, gives you some claim. You gave that up a long time ago. It’s just memories now. Yes, little Samhal wanted everything from you, anything you would give. I don’t. I’m not him. He’s gone.”

“Alright.”

“That’s not forgiveness, so we’re clear.”

“I know that. But so we’re clear, I’m just the same stupid, simple Ilen. And you can’t stop being the same blood so easily as wishing. And I’m sorry.”

They lapsed back into silence, and Samhal let his eyes close as the bronto trundled steadily forward.

“You’re an uncle, you know,” Ilen said.

“What?”

“Twice over. Una’s six, Sareth’s five.”

An _uncle_.

“Go home to them then, Ilen. Don’t stay here in some bullheaded effort to protect me.”

“Don’t give yourself so much credit. I’m not that stupid that I can’t see what’s going on. Maybe I’m here for them, too.”

“...Alright.”

“Alright.” Ilen sat a while longer. “Are we done, then?”

Samhal grunted confirmation, and Ilen swung lightly off the edge of the moving sledge.

“Ilen? I enjoyed your singing.”

“And I enjoyed the dance.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He called for Cullen next. 

“So, how did we do? How many did we lose?”

“Far fewer than we might have. It’s difficult to get a clear tally of camp followers and refugees, and I have no record yet of some groups, but we believe that nearly all of the non-combatants escaped. The mages suffered some losses, and our own soldiers fared worst. We owe the Fereldan escort a debt of gratitude--without their numbers, casualties would have been heavier. And were it not for the warning we received…” Cullen’s grim expression said the rest.

“It is a strange tale, in fact,” he went on. “I cannot seem to get a clear idea of what took place at Therinfal Redoubt. That is, the beginning is clear enough--Ser Lisette and our templars joined with the templars there as intended, and Charter and her scouts placed themselves among the servants--”

“Charter. Not a name--a naught. Observing unobserved.”

Both Cullen and Samhal jerked around, startled, to find Cole perching on the barrell Ilen had recently vacated. He seemed oblivious to their surprise.

“They go through life seeing what they expect to see. It’s not magic, I just see what there is.” Cole’s voice modulated strangely, and then shifted. “She sees everything. She saw me!”

“Ah...yes, right.” Cullen cleared his throat, discomfited. “Charter and Lisette immediately saw great cause for concern, but it seems the turning point was when Charter befriended this boy here, who seems to have been instrumental in the escape of Ser Barris and the others, though I am sorry, I have yet to fully understand your role.”

“I went between. The other templars didn’t see me. But Lisette--she wanted to help, like me. I slipped sometimes, sliding out of memory, but she remembered to help. I told them what Charter saw. They found a way.”

“As I understand it,” said Cullen, “the boy here facilitated communication between Charter and Ser Lisette and, at last, Ser Barris, who also had grave concerns about the direction of events. They were able to gather a group together and escape under cover of dark, shortly before the bulk of the templar force moved out.”

“Not everyone. We couldn’t help everyone, I’m sorry.”

Cullen studied Cole for a moment. “Nonetheless, I thank you.”

Cole glanced over his shoulder, back down the line of marching people. “It’s too heavy. She wants to give up, to be under the snow with him.” He slipped down, absurd hat bobbing through the crowd.

“Well he is just disconcerting. What the fuck,” said Samhal.

“Hah--Charter and Ser Lisette both vouch for him, but I have concerns still. I have meant to see that he is questioned properly, but it keeps slipping my mind.”

Samhal glanced backwards again, but couldn’t remember what he was looking for.

“Right,” said Cullen, clearing his throat. “Moving on. We know our enemy now. Corypheus did not follow, perhaps because he believes you to be dead. We can hope that that will protect us until we are safely settled in this Skyhold.”

“But we can’t keep me hidden much longer than that,” Samhal said. “Not if we want enough force to have a chance against that army.”

“Too true. We might have held better with more time to train together, but I would still need several times our current force to face the templars as they are now. If we are to have a chance, we will need more soldiers, better equipment--allies.”

“Then we’ll get them.”

Cullen opened his mouth, and then hesitated. After a second, he smiled. “Samhal? I am...very glad that you survived. When you left to face the Elder One...I thought--I--I will not allow the events of Haven to happen again. You have my word. You do not face this alone.”

“I--thank you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Samhal slept then, slipping in and out of consciousness as wispy clouds blew overhead and the sun traveled around the jagged ring of mountain peaks. The air warmed, and they set people in front of the sledges to test the snow as they went.

He woke at one point to find Dorian walking beside him.

“Hello, sleepyhead. How are you holding up?”

“Me? All healed up, didn’t you hear? Not even a scab.”

“I meant that you’ve been through more in the last week than anyone should have to see in a lifetime.”

“And you’re worried I can’t hack it. Well, forget about it. I’ve got it under control.”

“I was worried about _you_ , you errant ass.”

“I’ve got it under control,” Samhal repeated, and lifted his chin as if daring Dorian to disagree. Dorian sighed and glanced away.

“Blighted mountains. Is it too much to hope that this Skyhold will have a solid roof or two?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When they stopped to make camp, Solas helped Samhal get himself straightened out, brushed, and propped up before fetching his next visitors.

“Chancellor, Josie, come, sit down. Chancellor, we all owe you a great debt of gratitude. I know we’ve been on different sides in the past, but you saved people’s lives. Thank you.”

Roderick sat stiffly, face thoughtful.

“I have been...harsh to you in the past. I was so certain that you could not be what they said. But time and again you have risked your life to save others. You have done what I thought you could not. And for me to be there, to remember the path when perhaps no one else still does...perhaps the Maker’s hand touches us here after all--touches you.”

“Well, we still have impossible things to do, so here’s hoping. I’m terribly tired, though, so I’ll get straight to the point. You have been told by now that our attacker at Haven, Corypheus, was the true hand behind the explosion at the Conclave. It seems obvious that he is also responsible for the defection of the templars.” Samhal said nothing--no one outside the inner circle would say anything--about the origins of the Mark. “The question, Chancellor, is whether I can count on the Chantry to turn and fight the real enemy, or whether it will continue to hinder my efforts.”

“I am only, as Seeker Pentaghast once said, a glorified clerk. I can do only so much to sway the opinion of the remaining Mothers.” Roderick’s mouth twitched sideways in a rare glimpse of humor. “I am, however, the glorified clerk who holds the Chantry’s purse strings. I believe now that it would have been the will of Most Holy, blessed be her memory, that the Chantry continue to support the Inquisition.”

“I am enormously relieved to hear it, Excellency,” Josephine said.

“Of course, the abandonment of the Circles and the general upheaval has greatly damaged Chantry revenue. Naturally, any assistance the Chantry receives in repairing itself would be reflected in greater return assistance.”

Samhal smiled thinly. “Naturally.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One more conversation. One more, and then he could rest.

“Did you need something?” Cassandra ducked through the tent flap, tying it behind her against the cold. “Is your strength returning at all yet?”

“Oh, I’ll ride this excuse a little longer, I think. It doesn’t...hurt as badly, though.”

“I should never have left you.”

“I drove you away, Cass.”

“It was foolish of you.”

He didn’t argue, and for a minute they sat in fatigued but comfortable silence.

“Do you still have no belief in the Maker, then?” said Cassandra suddenly.

“What, because--” He laughed. “Seeing what they expect to see, was it? I’m more persuaded than ever that nothing Divine protects me, you’re more persuaded than ever that it’s all the Maker. I am beginning to believe in Fate, though. And I’m pissed about it.”

“Oh?”

Samhal held up his hand, studying it, the calloused skin that had once been soft, the now-quiet slash of green energy. After a moment, his arm shook with fatigue, and he let it fall. Cassandra shifted closer, and he leaned against her gratefully.

“This thing is my fate now, whatever it really is. It stands in the Elder One’s way, and so I stand in his way. And apparently, for whatever reason, I have to. I don’t know how much is enough, so I have to do everything I can.”

“I am glad to hear you say it.”

“Are you really?” Samhal snorted. “Are you sure? Because I’ve been thinking, Cassandra, and something seems clear to me. If I’m the element that makes the difference, me, the Little Fox, then it stands to reason that I need to do this _my way_.”

“And what, then, is your way?”

“Well obviously! Lie, cheat, manipulate, and seduce.” 

Samhal laughed at her face, a sudden bark of laughter that crinkled his nose and loosened something in his chest. “I’m sorry, I had to. You’re such a delicious mark.”

“Varric seems to think so as well.”

“I meant it, though. I lie, Cassandra. I lie, and I run, I take advantage and manipulate and I piss people off on purpose. Especially you.”

“I have noticed.”

“If I was lying to you still, you wouldn’t know.”

“I know it.”

“And still you want me in charge.”

“As I have said, I trust your heart.”

“But I wasn’t joking, Cass. I have to be my own kind of hero. I can’t be anything else. I know you wanted Hawke--popular, powerful, pretty Hawke. She probably would have been perfect. I’m not Hawke. My past is more likely to haunt us than help us. I don’t make the trees walk and flowers bloom, I make people trip at the wrong moment.

“But you, now--Right Hand of the Divine. Hero of Orlais. Dragonslayer. Daughter of the great Pentaghasts. It says something about you, that you looked outside yourself for a shining hero after all that.”

“That story is always overblown,” Cassandra huffed. “I had a great deal of help.”

“And so do I! I can’t be left alone for five minutes without nearly getting killed, apparently. I don’t know how to lead, how to fight--I’m faking it for all I’m worth. But all this, it’s too much for one person. We need each other, and I’m trying to come to grips with that now. I’m trying to reach out, but you have to understand that it...terrifies me.”

He paused, biting his lip as he sorted the words carefully in his head. Cassandra waited, shoulder rising and falling steadily against his cheek.

“It is very hard...to be trusted. For me. And hard to trust. I may do things you hate. If I have to, I will. The price of failure is too high for me to choose now to be nice about my morals. How will you deal with that?”

“And do you think that I believed that Leliana solved all of Most Holy’s problems with flowers and politely worded requests? I am not a child.”

“And we’re very, very different people. My methods are not your methods. My wants are not yours. My priorities are not yours. My beliefs are not yours. Would you have freed the mages? Brought them on as allies?”

“Perhaps not. But I also do not know what I would have done. We must all live by what we believe is right.”

“Hmmm. So, you’ll trust me?”

“I have faith.”

Samhal sighed. “Close enough, I guess. I hope.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Skyhold came into sight midmorning the next day, rising out of the surrounding mountains like a miracle in stone, too good to be true.

“Solas, you found me a castle. And what a castle!”

Solas, walking beside Samhal’s slow-moving nest, studied the castle with a carefully blank face. “It was once far finer.”

“I don’t care what it was once. If it has a room with solid walls and a door, you and I and your perfect ass are going to throw a beautiful two-person party and that will be very fine.”

Solas arched his eyebrows delicately. “I thought you were still recovering?”

“That’s why you’ll do all the work, my handsome chevalier.”

It took much of the day to close the distance to the castle. As they came nearer, the collapsed roof sections, the gap in the wall, a dozen ravages of age came into focus, but so did the scale of the place. At last, the great causeway spread before them, wide enough for several horses abreast, and the ancient stone walls cast their shadow over everything. Every person Samhal watched seemed to hesitate for a moment before passing through the empty arches that had once held the gate. He felt it himself, as if he was disturbing a long sleep. 

The castle spread around him now, cold and massive, and suddenly it felt like ridiculous gall to lay claim to something so ancient and mighty, something so self-sufficient in its solitude. But he would have to claim it, he realized, to give these people a place. An elf, with a castle. Assassins would probably come after him for that presumption alone. He looked around at the snow half-covering rotted timber buildings, the grey walls, the great sweeping staircase up to the bulk of the keep. Behind him, people poured through the gates, milling in the courtyard, staring around them with the same awe he felt.

“Well, it’s more impressive than welcoming.” 

Samhal glanced over to find Varric leaning on the edge of the sledge.

“Aren’t you from Kirkwall? Place doesn’t have a reputation for beauty and softness.”

“True, and Kirkwall smells worse, too. But it’s home.”

“This doesn’t have to be homey. It has to keep out dragons.”

“That’s more of an issue in Kirkwall than you might expect, too.”

Samhal snorted. “Give me a hand up. If you can.”

“Haha, short jokes. Original.” Varric reached over the wall of the sled and offered a hand, and Samhal began digging himself out of his furs. 

“If we might have a moment?” Samhal looked up from his struggle to find Cassandra, and behind her Cullen. His eyes darted around, taking in their expectant expressions, the crowd waiting to be told what to do, and at last, Leliana and Chancellor Roderick, standing over them all at the turning of the great stairs.

“Oh, are we doing this now? No, that makes sense, no time better. Alright, help me up the stairs. No, not you Cass--Cullen. You follow. It’s fine--good symbolism.”

Cassandra and Cullen exchanged confused glances, but Cullen took over from Varric and helped Samhal to his feet. Leaning heavily on Cullen’s arm, Samhal began to walk carefully.

“Samhal,” Cassandra began, “the Inquisition has done much already, but the people need more than just an enemy, they need--”

“Yeah yeah, I got it. I’m not stupid. I got it.”

Cassandra blinked and closed her mouth.

At the turning of the stairs, Leliana and the Chancellor waited. Leliana held a ludicrously large sword, elaborately decorated with a dragon hilt. Samhal smiled at her.

“Hello, Nightingale. I wonder, bard, can you follow in the dance as well as you lead?” Leliana’s expression didn’t flicker, but something in her eyes hardened for a moment. Samhal’s smile broadened, but dropped before he turned to the crowd.

He raised his hand, cautiously letting the Mark flare out. For a second he wobbled, but before he could stumble, he felt Cullen’s hand under his elbow. The crowd stilled, all eyes turning towards him. Swallowing, he prepared to embark on what he hoped would be the most masterful blend of sincerity and complete bullshit he’d managed in his life thus far.

“My people--” Yes, that was it. Claim them, claim the castle, claim the Mark. “My people, welcome to Skyhold.

“You are many different people, here for many different reasons. You are all the peoples of Thedas, here from nearly all of her countries. Some of you were with the Inquisition before the Conclave, hoping to put an end to the mage-templar war, hoping to be part of building a new, better Chantry. Some of you joined after, to close the Breach and end the terror. Some of you are here by chance, just trying to get on with your lives. Some of you had nowhere else to go. I--I--” The time for turning back, if there had ever been one, was long gone. “I am here because I was chosen.”

“But we were all at Haven, and we all know now that there is another, even greater task here for everyone who will join me in this fight. It is fitting, isn’t it, that just as one of the defilers of the Golden City returns to blight the world, the second Inquisition should have risen to face it.

“Make no mistake, this is war. I will fight this war with everything I have, and I will fight it with anyone who willingly helps, no matter who you are or what you come from. You see what I am. If we were meant to disdain anyone who wished to join our cause, surely I would not have been chosen. You might not have chosen to live and fight beside mages, but they have fought for their lives and now also for yours. You might not have chosen elves, or dwarves, or Qunari as comrades, but if they will fight, I will be proud to have them. If you are too afraid or too proud to fight the Elder One at my side, then go home while you still can. But if you stay and fight, I will do everything in my power to see that your sacrifices are honored. Maybe we were all chosen.” 

He watched their faces and he knew that in pretending to let them go he only bound them tighter. Hardly the first or last thing he would hate himself for. But they were bound. Rapt. Now for the next step.

“Wars are not fought by individuals. You name me Herald of Andraste, but I cannot win without you, and you cannot win without each other. We must be united. We must resolve our differences. We must finish the tasks for which Divine Justinia first envisioned this new Inquisition. And for that, we need an Inquisitor.” 

Samhal took a deep breath and held it, fighting the crushing tension in his chest.

“Do you still say you trust me, Cassandra?” He pitched it low, to carry only to those on the stairs with him.

“I--yes?”

He smiled tensely, and raised his voice again.

“A good and wise man told me that the key to leading wisely is not to have every solution, or solve every problem yourself. I believe no one has that much wisdom or deserves that much power. The key is to have good people at your back, and to trust them. And I have the great blessing of many, many good people--of all of you here--but there is one whom you will all recognize, who has been with the Inquisition since before the beginning, who has been at my back at every turn, who has been relentless at every obstacle. Cassandra Pentaghast, Seeker of Truth, Right Hand of Divine Justinia, Hero of Orlais, will you step forward?”

Every eye turned to Cassandra.

“ _What are you doing?_ ” she hissed.

“Cheating,” Samhal replied. “This is cheating. Also the manipulating. Smile for the people, Cass.”

Gritting her teeth, Cassandra stepped forward. Samhal raised his voice again.

“Cassandra Pentaghast, as the Seekers of Truth rose from the first Inquisition, so it seems right that the new Inquisitor rise from among the Seekers of Truth. Chancellor, the sword, please?” Startling, Roderick took the massive sword from Leliana in awkward hands and brought it forward. Something that was definitely amusement glittered in Leliana’s eyes. 

“Cassandra, as I am the Herald, will you serve me as Inquisitor?”

“I--” 

“Speak up, Cass,” Samhal whispered. “Make them hear you. _Trust me._ ”

She hesitated a heartbeat longer. Then, turning to Roderick, she took the sword and raised it to tower above them all.

“I will! I will serve.”

Their audience responded instantly, roaring its approval. The sound redoubled when Samhal raised his hand, letting green light spill out over them all. He held the pose for as long as he could, but at last his knees began to buckle. He reached for Cassandra’s arm, and she lowered the sword, turning to support him.

“Next time,” he muttered, “don’t try to trap me. You’re not quick enough.”


	46. Chapter 46

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit a chapter! More notes and explanations below, but meanwhile--*jazz hands*--the story finally continues.

Samhal ran his hand along the wall in fascination, reveling in the satiny finish of it. The stone fit together almost seamlessly, chiseled perfectly smooth so that it joined with no evident mortaring. It felt like the building simply grew into the soaring arches he passed under, free of the influence of hands. Rounding a corner, he broke out onto a high balcony. Vines dotted with small violet flower twined over a huge mosaic, the tesserae glittering gold and green in the sunlight. He was so rapt that for a moment he failed to notice the figure leaning over the delicately carved railing.

“Solas!”

Solas rose and turned quickly. “Samhal! You continue to surprise me.”

Samhal stepped to the railing, staring out over the mountains, white-tipped but lushly green in their valleys. He turned slowly, taking in the gracefully peaked arch through which he had passed, the second mosaic that balanced the first he had seen, the walled gardens far below. Marveling at the way the stonework and living vines seemed to twine together as if they were both part of the same plan. The castle curved back and away from this point, rising steeply to soaring spires that seemed almost translucent in the sunshine.

“This...this is not real.”

“It once was.”

“This is the Fade. Oh.” Samhal drooped slightly. “You’re not really here.”

“It is the Fade, yes, but I am in fact here. You have sought me out. It is...remarkable.”

“Then what...what was this?”

“Tarasyl'an Te'las. Skyhold, as it was.”

Samhal rotated again in silence. He saw now the sweeping ears of the figures in the mosaic. _This had been an elven place_.

With new eyes he took in the tower rearing out of another mountainside in the distance, the half-familiar patterns in the stone floor, the intricacy of the carvings. He stared and stared, trying to memorize it all.

“Why do you cry, my heart?” Solas caught him around the waist from behind and Samhal clutched at his hands.

“I didn’t know. It’s so beautiful, so...much. I didn’t know.”

They stood together like that for a long while, silently. Just once, Samhal thought he felt Solas’ chest shudder unevenly against his back, but it was so quick. He couldn’t be sure.

“It must be...hard...for you,” Samhal began. “To see things like this, to see what was lost. To see so many people’s worst memories. You must have a dozen full-scale battles in your head.”

Solas didn’t respond right away. “Somewhat more than that, in truth. But it is not only the worst memories I am shown. The spirits are drawn also to memories of joy, of tenderness, of triumph. But what of you? Do your recently-gained memories trouble you?”

“Do they _trouble_ me?” Samhal laughed shakily. “Elgar’nan’s flames, they’re incessant! ‘You know what would solve this problem? Murder! Ah yes, I remember this difficulty, just cut someone the fuck open!’ Whoever’s memories these are, I would like to know much less about them. But don’t--that’s not why I asked. I just...never thought before what it must be like. You told me all the stories, but I don’t think I thought before about how it felt. To _see_ those things. It was...so strange, at Redcliffe, remembering how it had been. And now this.” He waved his hand at the beauties around them, the towering monument to _his_ people that would vanish again when he woke. “How many places are like that for you?”

“Many.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes. Sometimes.”

Samhal twisted in Solas’ grasp and slipped his arms around Solas’ neck, drawing him down. After a moment, Solas let himself be pulled, turning his face into Samhal’s shoulder.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Samhal woke alone, to unadorned grey stone and the permeating smell of mildew, he had no sense of how long they had stood there, only a lingering melancholy. He closed his eyes again, reaching for the serene vaults and spires of the old fortress, but knew it was a lost cause even without the knocking on his door. Opening his eyes again, he put out a hand to touch the cold, rough wall. 

This place had belonged to elves once. Maybe it would be glad to do so again.

“What do you want?” he called, pushing himself up. He was pleased to note that his muscles responded much better than they had the day before.

Cassandra came in, followed more hesitantly by Josephine.

“I’m cold,” Samhal announced. 

“We are all cold,” Cassandra said. “Fortunately, there is a great deal of wreckage to be burned, and a fire in the hall.”

“The mages want to know what protections they can expect from the templars,” Josephine said, “and the refugees ask what protections they can expect from the mages. Also, Ser Barris wishes to know if his templars will be permitted to stay, the Marquis du Caldebec is furious because we neglected to give him rooms last night, and...I am sorry. I realize it’s a great deal.”

Samhal flopped back on his folded hood. “There are dragons and undead Magisters and an army of lyrium monsters after us and this is what we’re worried about? Shit, I don’t know. Get them all drunk, they’ll play cards badly, they’ll fuck, we’re all friends, ta da.”

Cassandra grunted in disgust, but Josephine giggled.

“Parties are excellent for building esprit de corps, no doubt, but I don’t believe we salvaged enough alcohol to make that strategy viable.”

“That was my best idea, too. Alright. Josie, precious jewel, I have every faith in your ability to soothe ruffled feathers. Please tell everyone that...that a decision will be reached before everyone needs to go to bed, and that--” he paused, scrubbing his hands through his hair, smoothing it back reflexively. “That everyone will be given an opportunity to voice their concerns before then. Does that sound good for the next half hour?”

“I believe I can make that suffice, yes.”

“Wait. Do, uh...do the people who aren’t soldiers or mages or templars have anyone they’d trust to speak for them? The refugees and such?”

“I will ask.”

“Thank you. Now, if I could have a minute with my Inquisitor.”

“Of course.” Josie excused herself, closing the door behind.

“You know, Cass, it makes sense that you’re stuck with this decision, but how the fuck did I end up here?”

“I doubt you would be pleased if I said it was the Maker’s will.”

Samhal snorted. “Sit down. This is your job too. And I don’t know what to do anyway.”

“I do not see the way myself, truly.”

“At last we have something in common.” Samhal stretched, twisting until his back popped audibly, and then sat up, arms around his knees. “But you’ve been in this since the beginning--since before the beginning, I guess. This is your Inquisition. The Divine’s, I guess. What did she want, then? What did she mean to get out of this?”

“I was not so close to the Divine that she shared her dreams with me. You would be better served, I think, to ask Sister Nightingale. They were always close. But what I understood--Justinia knew the war was coming long before it began. She tried to avert it, but the forces arrayed against her were too strong. I believe she meant to weaken the templars--perhaps also the Seekers, I think now--and bring them back to heel. I believe she felt the mages were treated unjustly, but I do not know what she felt would be just. She moved very carefully. Many in the Chantry would have called her intentions heretical if they had been fully known.”

“When Leliana and I declared the Inquisition after the Breach, my chief reason was to create an organization strong enough to stand against the forces tearing Thedas apart and seal the Breach. The Chantry had collapsed on itself, and the groundwork had already been laid to form the Inquisition. I still believe that the battle against Corypheus and whatever allies he has must take precedence. People must be made to understand that they must do everything in their power to fight this threat.”

“Yes but Cass, you can’t just threaten people into understanding, and we’re fighting too many wars. We have to end their wars so that they can concentrate on ours. If you want people’s best, you have to make them _want_ to give it.”

“And that is where I founder and you excel.”

“Yeah well. I usually work one person at a time, and I don’t think my spectacular assets are going to be enough to resolve a thousand years of tensions between mages and...well, everyone else. So, yeah, I’ll ask Leliana, and I’ll ask everyone I can, but right now I’m asking you. What’s the balance?”

Cassandra sat silent for long enough that Samhal began to fidget.

“The mages wish to be free, to be rid of the templars. But they are not like other people, and we cannot treat them like other people. Alexius is a mage. Once, Corypheus was but a mage, if the stories are true. You know best what their power could bring us all to.”

Samhal had a sudden, vivid memory of Leliana’s scarred, furious face. _”No one should have this power.”_ But that would never happen. He would make sure it didn’t.

“The Circles have failed us,” Cassandra went on, “but there must be some means of protecting the world from the worst of what mages can do. There must be rules, and there must be means to enforce those rules. Perhaps...perhaps, especially since we have so few templars, it is time for the mages to have a greater role in watching each other. Change was necessary, and we should not be afraid to embrace it--but we should not be too quick to throw away what tradition has to offer us.” 

She stopped, watching for Samhal’s reaction, but he kept his face blank. “Alright. Now let’s hear what everyone else has to say. Then, we decide. Me, and you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Vivienne, Fiona, thank you for your time, I’m sure you have a lot of things to do. I’m very grateful that the two of you have set aside your differences to organize the mages so far. While everyone was focused on the Breach, it was enough. But now, we’ve got this big new house to move into, and everyone wants to know their place--and, apparently, everyone else’s place too. So this is your chance. I need your thoughts--real, specific thoughts--on how best to keep all of my allies happy even though they hate each other.”

“First, naturally, we must reassure everyone that the mages regret their actions and are prepared to submit to reasonable restrictions,” Vivienne responded promptly.

“Reasonable restrictions!” exclaimed Fiona. “And who decides what counts as reasonable, then?”

“Public opinion, darling, just as always. We must repair the harm that you have done with your rebellion, or we will be back to the days when mages were hunted, safe nowhere.”

“The harm that I have done, you say! I wonder, what would you have done, had you been there, rather than off enjoying freedoms most of the mages you judge can hardly dream of? Would you have bared your neck and waited for the sword to fall?”

“ _I_ would not have given the Lord Seeker cause to label us all rebels! How many lives must be lost before--”

“ _Enough!_ ” Cassandra stood, leaning across the table with her hands digging at the wood. “We did not call for you to hash over what has already been done. The Herald has asked for your advice on how to move _forward. Now._ We do not have the leisure of finding the one right and most perfect answer, assuming such a thing exists. What we must do is draw together as allies and work together, and we must do it now, or we will lose this war and lose our ability to debate and recriminate.”

The three women stared at each other, crackling with tension.

“Actually,” Samhal began, calmly, “I’m all for people yelling so long as it’s not at me. But we don’t have a lot of time, like the lady says. So, specifics. Now, tell me about the Harrowing.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Knight-Captain Barris and Ser Lisette took their places a few steps inside the door, at attention and plainly wondering why they were there. Samhal ignored the mushroom stench of his half-rotted chair and forced his muscles to relax, leaning on one arm. Should’ve done the templars first, when he had more energy to fight the fear.

“Knight-Captain Barris.” Samhal smiled. Important to recognize rank, to show respect, whether you actually did or not. “You are here because you are the highest-ranking templar present.” Not precisely true, but Knight-Captain Rylen had come earlier, out of order, and said shortly that he didn’t care what the Inquisition did so long as it wasn’t stupid, and he was busy. 

“Ser Lisette, Ser Barris already knows better than I the bravery you have shown and the service you have done both to him and to the Inquisition. We felt that gave you claim on a voice today.” That, and the fact that Lisette had already proved to possess an unusually flexible mind for a templar. 

Cassandra stalked by behind him. “As you must realize, there are decisions to be made. The Herald felt you were entitled to share your opinion about the future of the templar Order before our pronouncement. What you say here is private and unofficial. We wish to hear your true thoughts. Ser Barris?”

Ser Barris shifted his weight from foot to foot, studying their faces in turn. Samhal forced his muscles to relax yet again.

“The templars have failed their trust and broken faith with the Chantry. As we speak, the remains of the changed templars are out there doing Maker knows what, destroying what is left of centuries of honor and respect. We let this happen. Our officers either failed to see it, or were complicit. We owe our very lives to your timely intervention. The templars are ready to hear what the Inquisition needs of us.”

“And do you think there is a future for the Order?” Cassandra asked.

“The Order is leaderless. Gutted by betrayal. We must rebuild it. We must rededicate it to the principles on which it was founded and be a shield to protect the people from dark magic.”

“Must we?” Lisette blanched slightly as all eyes turned to her. “I...that is...with respect to the Knight-Captain, the failure was ours, was it not? Our highest and most trusted led us down this road. Liesl--that is, the mages say that they were driven to rebel in fear of their very lives. Were we not the whip, then? And having done this thing, what does the Order do but publicly swear to kill them all, to trample any chance of a return to peace. After all that, must we not ask ourselves why it was that we fell so easily? Was it something inherent in our ways, in our thinking?”

“What would you like to see, then, Ser?” For a moment Samhal forgot his fear in favor of surprise.

“Well. Ah. Knight-Captain Barris is certainly correct at least in that if we wish to save anything from the Order, we must now step up to defend the world as best we can from this risen Magister. We must earn the people’s trust. We must earn the _mages’_ trust. I...my opinion counts for little, but I do not believe we _deserve_ to be rebuilt if we cannot earn back that trust.”

“And how do you think that should be done, specifically?” Samhal asked.

“I’m sure I don’t know, Your Worship, but I think--I think it can’t be like it was before. We can’t remake the Circle here.”

“Ser Barris?” Cassandra prompted.

“Our ways worked for hundreds of years. We protected people. Surely they are not without value now. But Ser Lisette is certainly correct that we cannot re-create a Circle here, not even if the mages would submit to it. There are too few of us. Surely this Elder One is our first concern, and nothing we say or do here will matter if we cannot defend against him, but perhaps we could serve best where there is most need for our particular skills? There must be many peaceful mages and loyal templars stranded by events, many dangerous situations, maleficar taking advantage of the templars’ defection. Set us to those problems.”

Samhal and Cassandra exchanged a long look, and then Samhal shrugged slightly.

“Very well,” said Cassandra. “We will share our decisions later this evening.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lunch was yet more gruel. Samhal took his share with more enthusiasm than usual--which wasn’t saying much--because his battered body was screaming for the energy. Scanning the crowd, he spotted what he was looking for--Cullen, standing with a bowl forgotten in his hand, gesturing irately to something out of Samhal’s line of sight. Samhal wove his way through the crowd to Cullen’s side.

“Sit with me?”

For a moment Cullen looked like he would decline, and then he noticed the untouched bowl in his hand and smiled wryly. “I guess I’d better.”

Samhal guided them a little away from the crowd, peeking through a door at the end of the great hall. He surveyed the great cavern spread out below him with interest--it was massive, with rough, solid stone walls that looked much more like they’d been wrought out of the mountain itself than built. Great blackened scars marred the walls at intervals. The far end was open to the mountainside, filled with the distant roar of a waterfall that cascaded over it. He sat down on a broad step worn uneven with time, resting his elbows on the stone behind him. Cullen settled beside him, starting on his gruel.

“Where the fuck does the waterfall start?” 

Cullen blinked at the question, reassessing the distant end of the cavern. “I can’t imagine. There must be a wellspring. If so, that might explain the choice of location.”

“So, what do you think of Skyhold?” 

“Honestly, it’s more than we had any reason to hope for,” Cullen answered. “A literal lifesaver. There’s a great deal of work to be done, and we’re not entirely equipped to do it, but compared to Haven--there will not be another Haven, I swear to you. When you went to face the dragon...well. I will not let that happen again.”

Cullen fell silent and studied the contents of his bowl intently, and Samhal studied his face.

“I know...I know you expected to die,” Cullen went on, still not looking up. “I am...glad you did not.”

Samhal grunted, distracted by the persistent intrusion of memories that were anything but glad. After a moment, he thought better, and said, “Thank you, I guess.”

Cullen cleared his throat. “At any rate, it is far more defensible than Haven. I did think, though, that we should take measures against the dragon particularly. Ballistas on all the towers...I have yet to think of a practical material for hoardings to protect our soldiers from dragonfire, but perhaps if we could find resources for a small brickworks--”

Belatedly, Samhal smiled. “And I’m glad you’re my general, to think of these things.”

“I had some cause, in Kirkwall, to give consideration to less flammable construction.” Cullen chuckled.

“Right. And, uh, speaking of Kirkwall. Sort of. Cullen, can you tell me, why did you become a templar?”

Cullen set down his bowl carefully beside him and clasped and unclasped his hands before he answered.

“I wanted to protect people. I wanted to serve the Chantry. I was thirteen, you know, when I was permitted to join, so of course I also wanted to wear shiny armor and hold a sword. But I thought it was the highest thing I could hope to do, to protect people, to protect mages from themselves. I realize now how that might sound to you.”

“And why did you leave the Order?”

Cullen looked at Samhal for a moment, eyes flaring wide, and then quickly looked away. This time, he took even longer to answer. 

“I could no longer persuade myself that what I was doing was worth the sacrifices made. When I looked for the certainty of rightness, of righteousness, that had sustained me, all I found was fear and anger. I still--” he trailed off and then took a deep breath. “I still believe in the calling I followed when I was thirteen. To be a shield, to protect _everyone_ against the evil magic can do, to protect against demons and maleficar. But I was no longer sure that what I was doing served those ends. All I suffered, all I saw, all I did and let be done…”

Samhal waited. Behind them in the hall, people rushed back and forth, driven by memories of dragon fire and blood-tinted crystal. In front of them, the waterfall sparkled and roared. But where they sat, everything was still.

“What about now, then? What is the future of the templar Order? Of the Circles?”

“I don’t know. I only know that I have no place in it. Only--” Cullen broke off and scrubbed anxiously at his neck.

“Only what?”

“It is nothing--that is, it does not serve our ends, I realize. But I would like, if you are willing, to offer the templars who have joined us a chance to...to be supported, should they wish to stop taking lyrium.”

Samhal stared at Cullen’s profile as the tumblers clicked into place in his mind.

“ _You’re not taking it._ The hangovers--I thought-- But it’s the _lyrium_ , isn’t it? Is that even--can you do that? Is it safe?”

Cullen laughed, harsh and startling. “Do you intend to winnow all my secrets and pains out in one day, then?”

“You said we should be friends.”

“I am no longer confident that I had any idea what that meant when I said it.”

“Well I know I didn’t. I didn’t--” Samhal laughed and ducked his head. “I didn’t even mean it when I agreed. Sorry. But uh, I...do now. So if...you need anything…”

Cullen smiled at him crookedly. “Life has suited us poorly to friendship. But thank you. I intended to tell you if I felt it was interfering with my ability to perform my duties. I apologize.”

“Shit, please don’t apologize. I would hate it, to need something...to not be in control. I don’t even trust drinking really. I would hate it.”

“It is a _chain_. I wanted to break that chain, though some days I am not sure I have yet succeeded. And look what it has done now--how many templars followed their leaders to their doom, because they felt obedience was their only choice. Because they trembled before the tiny bottle. The entire Order has fallen now. The officers had only to say, ‘this is it, this is all we have’, and the knights would drink the red lyrium, and feel they had no choice!” 

“Then yes.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Yes, we’ll offer them a chance to get out. And you. Whatever you think would help that we can provide. Which, you know, is mostly cold rocks right now but if that helps they’re welcome to them.”

“...Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this took forever, and I'm so glad to be back in business. This is, functionally, the beginning of a new 'book' of Little Fox. The last chapter, though I didn't note it and should have, brought an end to the 'Samhal accepts his new role (sort of) and takes charge' arc, and now a new arc is begun. As such, I wanted to a) get a much better handle on the outline and detailed plotting of this book, which I did, and b) get this section really right, since the patterns the characters are setting now will be so important going forward. (Also I went through a whole lot of crappy failed experimentation with new medicines and generally I think we can all agree it's been a shit month, but hey hey.)
> 
> Anyhow, I missed you all!


	47. Chapter 47

“Cassandra, I’m so fucking tired.”

“I would imagine.”

“My hands are getting all tingly and my fucking eyeballs ache.” He pressed his fingertips together a few times experimentally and then shook his hands. “Flames, that’s fucking strange.”

Cassandra sighed. “I can call a healer if you think it necessary.”

“No, let’s just...the people’s representatives are here, right? Let’s just keep going. Some tea, maybe, if we have anything left to put in hot water.” Samhal checked his hair and straightened his shoulders. “Come on then.”

Cassandra opened the door a crack and nodded brusquely to someone outside, exchanging quick words. A man in an Orlesian doublet that had probably been nice two days ago stepped in self-importantly

“Grand Chancellor Roderick Asignon!” Roderick stepped in, nose wrinkling as he glanced around the room. Behind him, Mother Giselle slipped through the door before Cassandra could close it.

“And myself,” she said, smiling gently. The self-appointed herald recovered admirably quickly.

“And Revered Mother Giselle of Jader!” Slightly flushed, the herald slipped back out the door.

Roderick glanced back with amusement. “Aren’t you getting a bit old for the rebellious act?”

“One is never too old to do what one believes is right, and these do not seem like times for caution. Was there something you wished to say to the Herald that my ears cannot hear?”

“Naturally not. Herald,” he turned, bowing slightly to bring Samhal into the conversation, “I have told you already that my personal allegiance lies with you completely, regardless of past interactions. But I think today you would prefer me to act as a representative of the Chantry and tell you what I believe they will think of recent developments, correct?”

“Right. Thank you.”

“Then in short, I am confident that many, if not most, of them will believe precisely as I once did. That you are a heretic, a heathen, quite possibly a murderer, and a usurper of power that cannot belong to you. You made gains in Val Royeaux, but the Chantry is splintered and those Mothers can only influence the others, if they will. Some will be swayed by accounts of Haven, but others may well see it as a sign of the Inquisition’s weakness instead. They did not see the force arrayed against us, and they did not see the danger you braved and survived. From a distance, I am afraid that to many the most obvious lesson to be taken from Haven will be that we are weak and were routed.”

“And how will they feel about allying with the mages?” Samhal asked.

“It will certainly hurt you. Many will feel that you assault the very tenets Andraste set forth but as Chancellor I feel quite comfortable telling you that many, if not most, of those will be most put off by the fact that without the income the Circles bring, the Chantry’s coffers are gutted and their pockets will not be so well-lined.”

“Well. Thanks for the good news, anyhow.” Samhal sighed and resisted the urge to fiddle with his numb hands.

“Ah well. I would hate to be seen as a killjoy.” Again there was that slight twinkle in Roderick’s eye. “But not everything I might say is terrible. For instance, I am absolutely confident that in the confusion and my absence, quite a bit of gold has gone wandering to pockets where it does not, strictly, belong. If I am able to trace any such incidents, those Mothers might well...become more sympathetic to our cause.”

Mother Giselle coughed into her hand.

“Perhaps, then, these worthies might be induced to contribute to the cause, don’t you think?” Giselle asked. Roderick actually smiled. It _would_ be thoughts of blackmailing embezzlers that made him cheery.

“I do believe that you could mitigate the damage a great deal if you simply placed some common sense restrictions on the mages. We have few templars, it’s true, but we have already secured a source of lyrium. Perhaps men and women could be selected for training from among the soldiers-- Your Worship, if you hope to play the Game well, you will need a tighter rein on your face. I can well imagine that you have little cause to love templars, but you have seen what we face. We cannot afford to coddle the mages if it will lose us important allies.”

“Surely the mages themselves are important allies? Think of the good they could do among the populace,” Giselle put in. “They may gain us allies as well, properly deployed.”

They did close the Breach,” Samhal tried. “Surely that counts for something?”

“I am only arguing for sensible restrictions! They can hardly put up meaningful objection--they have nowhere else to go and no other defenders remaining, now that King Alistair has been forced to reconsider his position. You must know how it will be seen if we allow them to wander free! What amount of good will undo the bad will created by a single abomination on our watch?”

Mother Giselle turned to Samhal. “It seems to me that if perhaps the mages were treated not as dangerous things but as people, they might well prove less dangerous allies than the Chancellor believes. All hearts are strongest when they are fighting for something they love, yes?” Roderick harrumphed but did not interrupt. “Also, I assure you that there are still those in the Chantry who are more concerned with showing the Maker’s love than furnishing their own comfort. There are those who believed, as Justinia believed, as I believe, that the Chantry’s treatment of mages was unacceptable and the templars beyond their bounds. If we can amplify their voices, they may support our cause.”

A young woman slipped in silently and handed Samhal a warm mug. The steam hit him with the scent of a hundred firelit night, woods and brush, his mother’s hands. His eyes darted to the doorway just in time to catch the barest flicker of red hair and leather leggings.

Spicebush. How many years must it have been? He’d forgotten he loved it, but Ilen hadn’t.

“Your Worship?”

Samhal looked up from his mug. “I’m sorry. We’re all tired. Please, go on.”

Mother Giselle smiled gently. “I believe the people will accept the mages more readily if they see material benefit from their presence. I would be very pleased to help set up a clinic, if the mages are willing and resources can be found. The mages could be very instrumental in reconstruction efforts, surely. I’m sure many other ways can be found to honor the dictum that magic should serve man, don’t you agree Chancellor?”

Samhal’s mouth twitched sideways for a moment at the sour expression on Roderick’s face, but he managed not to actually smirk. “Thank you, Mother. I--” Samhal broke off as a growing disturbance outside the door suddenly burst into the room in the form of a man in bedraggled velvet and a lovingly polished gilt half-mask.

“I will wait no longer! This indignity is unacceptable!”

The herald, flushed, scrambled in after. “Marquis, I--! Ahem. Marquis Henri du Caldebec, third of that name!”

“Chancellor, have you not the power to see this--this foul _maleficar_ arrested? Surely the last days have been ample proof that he is no favored of Andraste! And I have been told five times now that a suite will not be ready for me again tonight! Some jumped-up soldier had the temerity to tell me that if I wanted a room I should clear one myself! I, whose grandfather--” The red-faced Marquis squeaked very un-nobly as Cassandra grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around.

“Guards!” A dozen people crowded the doorway, gaping. There was a stir, and Ser Rylen pushed through followed by three soldiers.

“Ser Rylen, find this man a room. And then see that he stays there. Indefinitely.”

Rylen saluted with a broad grin, grabbed the Marquis’ arm ungently, and marched him out. The last soldier closed the door in the faces of the crowd.

Inside the room, there was a momentary silence, which Cassandra broke with a disgusted snort. Samhal was still trying to convince his thudding heart that the deadly word-- _maleficar_ \--had referred only to the Divine’s supposed murder. Which was an odd source of comfort at best.

“You may not believe me,” Roderick said at last, “but I am sorry to have my case so unpleasantly supported. I think...perhaps we should leave you a moment of privacy.”

“I have faith that Andraste will guide you to wisdom.” Mother Giselle smiled gently and followed Roderick out of the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Solas ate his gruel quietly and watched as people queued for their portions. They were bedraggled and sometimes bandaged, but there was a purpose in their eyes and they stood as if they had places to be, things to do. Indeed, throughout the hall and outside the doors as well, people bustled about in a surprisingly organized chaos. Commander Rutherford’s knowledge of full-scale battle might have been largely theoretical until Haven, but his knowledge of organizing people in the aftermath of disaster was concrete and, apparently, effective.

A young man bustled up to the sweating cook self-importantly, leaving a disgruntled wake among those waiting politely in line.

“His Worship requests a mug of tea!”

“That’s grand, then, but unless he’s pleased with hot water I haven’t got anything for him. Wasn’t on the top of my list while we were running for our lives.”

“I have.” Ilen Lavellan unfolded from his place against the wall. The man had a disturbing knack for being invisible until he meant to draw attention, and even Solas was caught by it. Ilen unslung his pack.

“As if we’d take your heathen brews!” scoffed the messenger, lip drawn up. “Most likely poison.”

“Not poison, spicebush.” Ilen’s lilting Dalish vowels were much stronger than Samhal’s. “And he likes it well. Or...he did, at least. Just give me hot water and I’ll make it myself.”

A round, florid man in Inquisition uniform elbowed the messenger hard in the ribs. “That’s the Herald’s brother, eejit, can’t you bloody tell by looking?”

Solas decided he’d seen enough. “I have a mug and can heat water readily enough.” Ilen stared at the original messenger for a moment longer before turning to Solas.

“Thank you.”

Solas poured water and began to heat it with a hand while Ilen settled to the floor silently and began to break up the small twigs in his pouch. As Solas held the mug out, Ilen hesitated.

“Have you seen him today, then? Is he well?”

He had not, in fact, seen Samhal in person yet, save in passing at a distance, and it troubled him how strange it felt.

“We’ve spoken. He is recovering. We must trust in his resilience.”

Ilen took the mug, bowing his head slightly. “Again, thank you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At the Commander’s request, Solas first helped a group of force mages clearing an impassable hallway, then joined a group working to clean and plumb the well. He helped to assess the arcane books and scrolls left in the cellar by a previous inhabitant of the castle and restore the spells which preserved them. But between each task, he found himself in the Great Hall, orbiting near the door that led to Samhal. It was a foolish distraction, and yet he found himself there a third time, lingering by a fire for longer than was called for.

He spotted one of the healers who had worked over Samhal--a comfortably padded woman with a gentle face, dozens of tight braids done up in a quick knot--walking towards the door carrying a tray, and moved quickly.

“I would be happy to relieve you of this task,” he said, hand gesturing for the tray.

“Oh, I’m not at all troubled.” She smiled, recognizing him from Samhal’s tent on the trek to Skyhold, and began to step around him.

“And doubtless he will need you again soon enough, but I believe I can readily do what is needed now.” He kept himself between her and the door, but shoulders slightly rounded, a slight social smile on his face.

She studied him, and briefly he worried that he had been too transparent in his eagerness. But she smiled, and held out the tray.

“A friendly face is some of the best medicine, isn’t it? Please make sure he takes the elfroot--he made quite a fuss about the taste.”

“Of course.” Solas took the tray.

Samhal and Dorian glanced up as he entered, the last wisp of a sigil dissipating between them. The smile that washed over Samhal’s face justified his efforts immediately.

“Oh thank fuck. Just the vile, bitter herb goop I was hoping for.”

Dorian straightened up. “Well then. I believe your grasp of the spell is adequate except for the little tweak at the end. Don’t have too much fun without me.” He winked, closing the door behind him.

“Oh Creators, Solas, I feel like a used handkerchief. I’ve been healed, there aren’t even scars this time! Why does everything still hurt?”

“The healers were skilled enough and healed each part of you, but the whole came near to death and can only recover with time and rest.”

“Which presumes rest. We could substitute a quick blowjob?” Samhal’s hopeful grin was utterly unconvincing.

“If I meant to put you to sleep, perhaps. As the task at hand is to keep you upright, I think better the elfroot.” The grin drooped into an exaggerated pout.

Solas held out a regeneration potion pointedly.

“Give me both.”

“Your small size makes it inadvisable--”

“ _I can’t be weak!_ ” 

They stared at each other, both startled by Samhal’s sudden force.

“I’m sorry. I just...I’m sorry. Just give me both please.” Samhal took the first potion, drinking it with a grimace. At the end, he offered a weak grin. “And I’m the perfect size, in case you’ve forgotten.”

He drank the second potion as well, and then eyed the last potion on the tray. It shimmered blue, swirling slightly even at rest.

“We become what we have to be. We do what we have to do, or we die trying.” Samhal straightened his shoulders and reached for the lyrium.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Solas chose a place on the balcony, where he would have a clear view not only of the Herald but of his audience. He was confident that magic would allow him to hear any discussion that might normally be inaudible at this distance. Shortly after, he found that Enchanter Vivienne had had the same idea, along with a small handful of others. For the most part, people crowded the floor below, creating a dull roar with their nervous whispers. He could not make out Varric, but the Qunari mercenary was unmistakable, towering over those around him. At the front of the hall, someone had placed a chair on the dias, a fine cloak carefully pinned and tucked to cover the seat’s poor condition.

The chatter rose abruptly, and then died, as Cassandra first, and then Samhal, emerged. Samhal’s fine clothing was all either in bloody tatters or buried under tons of snow, so once again he wore too-large clothing, tucked and pinned like the chair to fit as well as possible. He carried himself as if they were the finest velvet, studded with jewels, pacing with that dancer’s grace, slow and measured like a panther.

There was a minute hesitation before he sat on the makeshift throne-- so small that likely only Solas caught it--but then he draped himself across the seat as though he’d been born to it. There was a quick flicker of his hands, the indistinct shimmer of a sigil, and when he spoke, his voice rolled out through the entire room, at once commanding and intimate. Clearly, he’d sorted out the little tweak at the end of the spell.

“My people.” There was a wave of murmured surprise as his voice traveled. “I am _so proud_ of you. We have come so far, we have faced so much together, and we are still standing. We sealed the Breach, when no one else dared try! The monster Corypheus attacked us with no warning, but look at us--we are stronger than we were. We were saved, and we were blessed with this fortress, this place to fortify ourselves and grow strong.

“‘Maker, though I am but one, I have called in your name. And those who come to serve will know your glory. I remembered for them. They will see what can be gained, And though we are few against the wind, we are yours.’” 

He let the words of the Chant fall into silence before he continued.

“But the danger is still very great, and we have only begun to fight. We did all that we have done so far _together_ , and there is so much more that we must do, but I tell you again that we _must do it together_. Some of you have thought that these great walls give us room to return to old fears and old divisions, but we can’t afford that. 

“I know--I know that there are people under this very roof, listening to these words, that each of you may hate or fear or disdain. I have heard your concerns and your fears and I understand them. But if you wish to be in this Inquisition and join our battle, then _you will work together_.” Suddenly there was nothing elegant about him, no velvet.

“‘All men are the work of our Maker's hands, From the lowest slaves to the highest kings. Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker.’ If you have forgotten the verse, be sure that you remember it now. I have told you to resolve your differences and face the common enemy, and I have faith in your ability to do so. The mages are your allies, not your enemies. If the world has forgotten, then we must remind it by showing how strong we can be when we show the Maker’s love to each other.”

A rustle of silk caught Solas’ attention, and he looked over to see Vivienne’s rigid face.

“You disapprove, Enchanter?” he asked quietly.

“He discards an ancient order of things that he hardly understands.”

“And yet perhaps he understands the things that matter.”

Vivienne glanced at him for a bare second. “Solas, isn’t it?” He nodded. “I am told that you have lived your entire life outside the Circle, and so perhaps your ignorance is all that may be expected. The Herald’s ignorance, however, will have far-reaching consequences. I only hope that innocents do not pay the price.”

“The guilty so rarely do.”

On the dias, Samhal stopped speaking, and Cassandra stepped forward, back ramrod straight, and glared around the room.

“As your Inquisitor, I will be watching you. I am not the Chantry, and I do not speak for the Chantry until the Reverend Mothers agree to make it so, but at such time as there is again a Divine, I will tell her what I have seen, and what I believe should be done from now on. This is your chance--all of you--to prove to me that your Herald’s faith in you is justified. But should you betray that faith, should you harm anyone else here or in any way threaten or weaken our cause, _I will deal with you_.”

Solas smiled. Perfectly done. Now Samhal was the carrot and she was the stick. 

Samhal stood up and moved forward to put his hand on her shoulder. Even a step above her, he was barely taller.

“Now, everyone go and do everything in your power to make this a place that can stand against anything our enemy might bring. Together. And Andraste’s blessing on you all.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Samhal sagged drowsily against Solas’ chest as Solas gently massaged life back into his cold, tingling hands.

“Was I selfish? Was I weak to refuse to bind the mages? What if Vivienne--and Roderick, and basically everyone else, really--was right, and I’ve cost us? Cost the whole world everything. Just because I couldn’t stomach it. What if it makes people see me as no different from Corypheus and his pet magister?”

“But you are entirely different! He wished to subjugate the mages, you wish to free them, to give them a chance to prove themselves. There is great strength in that.”

“Great strength in utter horseshit. The Maker’s love! An entire lifetime’s practice went into saying that with a straight face, not to mention ten minutes reconciling Cassandra beforehand.” 

Solas moved up Samhal’s forearms, kneading the muscles there, warming them.

“The elf they chose to see me _kissed my hand_ ,” Samhal said. “How can I live up to that?”

“If anyone can, you will.”

Samhal snorted. “If you say so.”

“As you persist in seeing your actions in the worst possible light, it falls to me to provide a different view.”

With a sleepy harrumph, Samhal snuggled back against his shoulder.

“Solas, can we go back? Tonight, can you take me back to Tara…Tara...”

“Tarasyl'an Te'las.”

“I need--I want...just...please?”

“As you wish, vhenan.”


	48. Chapter 48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exciting news! This chapter was betaed by the thoughtful, thorough, and ever-supportive DAfan7711, and I think it's much better for it. Thank you so much, D!

Those first days in Skyhold were a tightrope walk between terror and hope. People worked frantically to make their new home livable and repair the gaping holes in its defences. Leliana’s scouts continued to report no sighting of either the Red Templars or the dragon, but everyone knew that that only meant they were off bringing death and terror elsewhere. Samhal would almost rather have known where the enemy was than this corrosive feeling that he knew far too little to counter anything protect anyone.

He would--probably they all would--have preferred to stay safe within walls, but nobody is safe that has nothing to eat, and so after he had recovered for a few more days, they’d ventured north to trade grand, unsubstantiated promises for food and equipment. Never had it been more clear to Samhal that outside of the Mark, his job was mostly sales--and nobody had a lot of spare coin to spend on dark horse organizations claiming to fight ancient bogeymen. Fortunately, selling from a weak position was old, familiar territory to Samhal, and on the whole much more his gig than killing and dying.

They hadn’t gotten past the gates of Orzammar, not for Marked hands nor for Grey Warden treaties, but they had been able to buy a shipment of good lyrium cheaply, since the lyrium market was a wreck. They’d also sent back quantities of dried mushrooms that no one would be enthusiastic about, and several squeaking crates of nugs.

In the day’s ride between Orzammar and Jader they’d encountered a nasty rift. Varric had gotten half his chest hair burned off and complained about it frequently. Jader had been suspicious, and not overburdened with surplus supplies at the end of winter. Samhal had suggested that they bring their case to the guildhalls. As he’d expected, they had been willing to venture a bit on anyone who was trying to return peace and sanity--and thus, hopefully, something more like business as usual. More food and materials had been sent back before they turned on the more dangerous leg of the journey, riding into contested territory along the southern shore of the Waking Sea.

The hope was to get a message through to Empress Celene, under siege in Halamshiral. After five days’ ride around and saving a lance of Gaspard’s chevaliers from a rift, though, they began to despair. Cassandra was for bringing their case to Gaspard--surely he would see reason and retract his bid for the crown in the light of aggression from Tevinter. Vivienne, though, was adamant that going to Gaspard so early on would be tantamount to a declaration of allegiance, which would only make it harder to reach Celene. They needed to speak from a position of greater power before they tried to bargain with the man, or he would be sure to find his advantage. 

When they stopped to make camp on the eighth day, the sun was lowering in the sky and casting a thin, watery light over bare branches and brown grasses. They had decided to turn back to Skyhold to reassess. Samhal was feeling thoroughly frustrated. How was he supposed to save Celene if he couldn’t even get to her? And if he couldn’t get to her, what was it like in the city? More to the point, what was it like for the many elves of Halamshiral, caught between two leaders who probably cared little enough for them? He hunched inside his hood and cursed his socks, which hadn’t been dry in two days.

“Lethallin?” By silent agreement, Solas only called him Vhenan privately. Samhal couldn’t have said exactly why it mattered, but their relationship, whatever it was, was no one’s business but their own. 

At the last second, Samhal tempered his tone so that only about half of his ‘What?’ came out as if he would like to hit something.

“If you would take a short walk with me? I saw a small something I believe you may enjoy.”

Samhal eyed Solas dubiously, but got up.

“I hope it’s lamb chops. Lamb chops and small mead and spinach puffs. Oh, and cranberry relish.”

“Sadly, no, but it is just through here.” Slipping through a tangle of tree roots, Solas crouched, focused on a spot on the ground. Samhal crouched next to him, squinting in the fading light.

“It’s dirt. Very exciting.”

Smiling, Solas reached out, gently shifting a sheet of leaf mould. As the soggy brown mess fell away, there was a flash of color. Crocuses--a small cluster of them, white veined with purple.

“Spring. We missed Wintersend in the flight, but I think you will not be cold for too much longer.”

Silently, Samhal ran a finger up one curving petal, admiring the powdery gold of the stamens.

“Thank you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Samhal woke still in the dark, with a sense that something was out of place. Solas was sitting up, hugging his knees.

“Y’re letting in the cold air,” he mumbled.

“Apologies,” Solas replied, but his tone was distant and distracted.

“Wha’s up?”

Solas hesitated. “I may need a favor.”

“You?” Samhal said, half-coherently. His brain grappled with the idea for a moment longer. “What do you need?”

“One of my oldest friends has been captured by mages--forced into slavery. I heard the cry for help as I slept.”

“What?!” Samhal sat up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and pulling the blankets around him with the other hand. Solas took no notice as more of the blankets slipped off of his legs. “In the Fade? Another Dreamer?”

“A spirit,” Solas said. “A spirit of Wisdom.” It was harsh, as if it were a test to see how Samhal would react. 

He could guess what Solas expected. Varric’s startled laugh when Solas had first referred to one of his ‘friends’ in front of him was probably the best he had come to hope for. But he’d asked for help even so, had made himself vulnerable. Samhal wanted to be better, he was going to be better. He’d promised he’d be better.

“Just tell me what you need and I’ll try.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Varric had known something was up as soon as he’d realized that it was Samhal shaking him awake before dawn. There hadn’t been much discussion. The others, he said, could do what suited them, but Samhal was going to help Solas’...spirit...friend.

Vivienne, the sharp angle of her head making her opinion of this use of time and resources clear enough, had turned back to Jader to continue the effort to reach Celene, taking a handful of troops as a guard. Varric had shrugged as he usually did, Blackwall had looked more bemused than anything, and Cassandra wasn’t about to let Samhal out of sight even though she obviously questioned the trip personally.

Solas’ obvious urgency had them on their horses before full light, and he set a hard pace, following signs no one else saw south into the Dales. The others followed, Varric clinging to his saddle grimly. The pace left little room for conversation, and so he entertained himself. Picture our heroes, dashing across the plains on their fine steeds, the wind rippling their chest hair. Well, his. Around them rise twisted columns of rock, unsoftened still by spring greenery. Off they pound, behind them a city torn by war between cousins, ahead of them a...spirit...in distress. 

The narration hung a bit on the idea that they were rescuing a spirit. Surely Wisdom was a gentler ideal than Justice, if as rare. And yet…

His mind fell down old paths. Certainly on the face of it, Fox was nothing like Hawke. But then, the Champion had been nothing like the Hawke he knew. Samhal also cared more about things...about everything, really...than he let on. Jeannie’s loving compassion for a man too entangled with a spirit had hurt her terribly, and Varric would never forgive him for that maybe most of all. He watched Solas, and he watched Samhal watching Solas, and he worried.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At midday, they paused to rest and feed the horses. Samhal stretched tired muscles, and reminded himself that he couldn’t lift his knee nearly to his nose with all the bulky gear in the way. He missed dancing.

“So, your friend is a spirit?” Varric asked. Samhal felt himself tense defensively on Solas’ behalf.

“A spirit of Wisdom, yes. And before you ask, unlike the spirits clamoring to enter our world through the rifts, it was dwelling quite happily in the Fade. It was summoned against its will, and wants my help to gain its freedom and return to the Fade.”

“You’re...sure about that, then?”

“Yes! You always think that spirits want to be on this side, as though this side of the Veil is inherently superior and anyone would want it. It isn’t so.”

“Alright, I was only asking.”

Solas sighed. “My friend is an explorer, seeking lost wisdom and reflecting it. It would happily discuss philosophy with you, but it had no wish to come here physically.”

“But you say it was captured by mages,” Cassandra said. “Why? And what are the mages doing out here? Is it possible they could be Tevinter?”

“I do not know. It knows a great deal of lore and history, but a mage could learn that simply by speaking to it in the Fade. It is possible that they seek information it does not wish to give, and intend to torture it.”

“Then...this must be very difficult for you,” Cassandra said. 

Samhal stood up, eyes tight. “You said it was close now?”

“Yes. Thank you for this. We are not far from where my friend was summoned.”

“Then let’s go.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As they rode, thick mist became thin drizzle and then cold rain, slowly soaking through Samhal’s beautiful hood and matting the fur lining to his cheeks. His head swam with questions he hadn’t found the time to ask. Or hadn’t taken the time. Everyone deserved their secrets, but if he was being honest with himself, he was flinching from the risk of another non-answer. He mopped uselessly at the water dripping off his sodden hair and felt guilty for hoping that this 'old friend' of Solas' would provide a window into the life Solas had had before.

They had ridden for another hour or so when they encountered the first body. A slight woman, mousy blonde, still dressed in torn Circle robes. 

“One of the mages,” Solas said. “Killed by arrows, it seems.”

“Bandits, most likely,” Blackwall rumbled.

“Not Tevinter, then,” said Cassandra. “But then, why…?”

Only yards away, they found more bodies, these horribly burned and disfigured.

“Well, that’s no bandits I’ve seen.” Blackwall drew his horse in a slow arc around the corpses, studying them.

“These aren’t mages. The bodies are burned, and these claw marks…” Solas broke off, looking up. “No. No, no, _no!_ ” He heeled his horse hard, sending her into a gallop. Samhal exchanged a shocked glance with Cassandra before following. The raw distress in Solas’ voice settled heavily in his stomach and sped his heart. 

He heard Varric galloping along just behind him. “I knew this was going to be nugshit. Stories with spirits never end well.”

When the first coughing snarl split the air, Samhal thought for a second that it was lightning. His horse sidled and shrugged, testing his newfound equestrian skills. Ahead of him, Solas slipped out of his saddle, not looking back to see if anyone took the reins. Samhal followed suit, handing his mount off to one of the remaining soldiers before running after Solas. 

Ahead, Solas let out a growl of rage like nothing Samhal had ever heard from him, and it set his heart pounding in a way the demon's snarl had not. As he came, panting, to Solas’ side, he saw the cause--a massive Pride demon, pacing heavily and shredding the ground some thirty yards away.

“I don’t understand,” Samhal said. “Where--your friend?”

“That _was_ my friend. A spirit becomes a demon when denied its original purpose.”

“They didn’t want wisdom, then. Fuck, Solas, I’m…” Samhal reached for Solas and then jerked back as someone emerged from behind a rock.

“Mages! You’re not with the bandits?”

“Better for you perhaps if we were!” Solas snarled.

Oblivious to the tone of the response, the mage went on. “Do you have any lyrium potions? Most of us are exhausted. We’ve been fighting that demon--”

“You _summoned_ that demon! Except it was a spirit of Wisdom at the time. You made it kill! You twisted it against its purpose!”

The mage could hardly have missed Solas’ fury this time. He shrank back, just as another ragged mage came up behind him.

“I-I-I understand how it might be confusing to someone who has not studied demons, but after you help us, I can--”

“We are not here to help _you_ ” Solas raised his staff, perhaps unconsciously.

Samhal slipped between them, trying not to flinch at the violence in Solas' gaze.

“What do we do? What can we do?”

He could see Solas refocus and calm just a little. “The summoning circle. We break it, we break the binding. No orders to kill, no conflict with its nature, no demon.”

“What!” exclaimed the mage. “The binding circle is the only thing--”

“Shut the fuck up,” Samhal snapped, passing him. “Solas, tell me what to do. How do I break the circle?”

“The magic is bound in those stone pillars--see the energies around them? Destroy those and you destroy the circle.”

“But the demon!” Cassandra shouted, jogging after Samhal, heavy boots squelching audibly on the soaked sod.

“If you could engage it, keep it busy while we work,” Solas replied. “We should not need long.”

Any response Cassandra made was lost to her helmet and the rain, but she kept running towards the demon without hesitation. 

Ahead of her, Samhal reached the first pillar and then hesitated. What the fuck was he going to actually _do?_ His staff was too delicate, fire hardly seemed useful, his usual tricks with weakness and illness far less so. Growling in disgust, he ran around in a little circle, searching the ground for a rock.

Purple lightning shot crazily over his head, and he heard a roar of pain from Cassandra. Belatedly, he thought to summon a weakening spell and fire it at the demon before going back to his increasingly idiotic search.

There! Half-buried in clammy mud and dead grass. He clawed at the rock, struggling to find traction. A nail tore into the quick, and his hands slipped repeatedly. There was blood mixing into the muck on his hands before he got the rock loose.

When he turned back to the fight, Blackwall was making good headway on a pillar with the pommel of his sword, and Solas had already destroyed one and moved on to the last. Cassandra stumbled, but before the demon could take advantage, a carefully-placed bolt from Bianca rang off of its hide and it turned with a roar of anger. Samhal flinched, then smashed the rock into the side of his pillar. In the wet, he couldn’t tell if he’d made any difference at all, but he struck again, and again. The demon lumbered closer, but just as Samhal danced back, Blackwall joined the fight, roaring to call the demon’s attention.

At last, the stone gave way under his hands, the trapped magic recoiling, snapping at the edges of his consciousness as it broke.

The field went silent. The demon was gone. Cassandra stood, sword raised, over a kneeling woman lit in coruscating black and green. She stepped back, suddenly nervous, and Solas rushed past her, squatting in front of the spirit. 

There was a quick, quiet patter of Elven--Samhal made out bits. Solas’ quick, “I’m sorry,” and then a flutter of words from the spirit. Something about “not sorry” “happy” and then…”death”.

_Death._

Solas’ hands went limp, hanging helplessly over his knees. From the side, Samhal could see him shut his eyes and take a breath as the rain ran in rivulets over the planes of his cheeks.

“Ma nuvenin.” _As you say_.

Simply, he gestured towards his friend, cupping the air and then releasing it. Wisdom rippled, and then...blew away, a bit at a time, in a wind none of them felt. Solas crouched in the center of the broken circle, alone.

“Dareth shiral,” Solas pronounced, looking away.

Nobody said anything. After a moment, Cassandra shifted awkwardly, sheathing her sword.

Samhal cleared his throat. “Solas, I...I’m sorry. Is, uh...is she--uh, it…” Dead. He swallowed the word.

“Wisdom is no more. Now I must endure.”

“I’m so….I was so slow, I’m sorry.” Samhal hugged his arms over his chest, shrinking in on himself.

Solas’ face lightened, the lines across his cheeks softening as he met Samhal’s eyes. “It would not have made a difference. Better my friend have a moment’s peace before the end. It...means a great deal that you tried.” Then he turned from Samhal, the hint of softness falling away entirely. “All that remains now is _them_.”

“Thank you,” began the mages’ spokesperson. “We would not have risked a summoning--” His words came faster, tripping over themselves as Solas stalked towards him. “Bu--but the roads are too dangerous to travel unprotected!”

“ _You_ tortured and killed my friend!” Something in his voice tugged urgently at Samhal and he sprang after Solas, reaching out.

“We..we didn’t know--”

“Solas!” Samhal caught his arm, arresting the energy building around him. “Solas, what are you doing?!”

Solas glanced down, arm still tensed under Samhal’s fingers. “Ensuring that these fools never treat another spirit as they have my friend.”

“You were going to _kill_ them!”

“And you would let them go? No punishment for the crime?”

“No! But they--I don’t know. Can’t they learn? Make up for it?”

“How should one ‘make up’ for a loss so great? Do you truly understand what was lost?”

Samhal kept his hold on Solas’ arm, fingers tight, but he shook--shook from the reaction to the fight, from fear of the look on Solas’ face. After a minute, he straightened a little. “No. I hope you will tell me. Tell me about Wisdom, later. But if killing was a contradiction of its nature, surely--surely it wouldn’t have wanted them to be killed?”

Solas made a harsh noise in his throat and looked away. He pulled his arm free.

“I need some time alone.” Long legs carried him away, up the gentle rise of a hill. “I will meet you back at Skyhold.”

Samhal blinked, sharing a glance with Cassandra.

“Wait, Solas! You won’t be safe--” He turned to follow just as Solas rounded one of the jutting stones that dotted the landscape. When he reached the point, Solas was gone. Nothing in any direction but rain and dead grass and grey stone. Baffled, he turned back to the others.

The leader of the mages tried again. “Thank you for--”

“Fuck off!” Samhal barked. “No, wait, don’t go anywhere. Just...don’t talk.” Samhal moved past them heading nowhere in particular, at last settling on a boulder, shoulders sagging.

A flash of purple caught his eye. A crocus, crushed by a passing boot in the fight. He stretched out a hand, trying to right the blossom with fingers streaked with mud and blood. It fell again as soon as he let go. 

Things lost, he thought. Known and unknown. It would have been good, to do something besides lose.


	49. Chapter 49

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to dafan7711 for their excellent beta assistance.

The two weeks of Samhal's absence had wrought astonishing changes on Skyhold. He saw no more piles of rubble blocking paths, nor debris gathering in the corners. Stone floors were swept clean, and scaffolding grew like ivy up walls. Workmen shouted back and forth, and the sound of chisels on stone filled the air. There was a sense of purpose and place about the way people moved, as though they knew where they were going and why.

Corypheus and his Red Templars were nowhere to be found, and the fortress had been left in peace thus far. Cullen’s troops had found clay beds and some half-decent slate, about which he was excited. There was a mud oven outside the walls, and a collection of equally muddy men mixing, molding, and stacking bricks. Cullen went on at entertaining length about the dragon-proof hoardings he was planning to fortify the walls with. The Iron Bull had volunteered to take his company back to Haven to see what could be retrieved, and valuable supplies were being hauled back. Josephine wanted Samhal's opinion on several matters of presentation, and Dorian had found a different edition of the Chant to review.

There was something reassuringly familiar about the bustle and din.

As dusk thickened, Josie walked him to his new room.

“It’s a great many stairs, I realize, but you’ll see--well, I’m told you like balconies. We’ll find you nicer things as we’re able, and I’m afraid one of the doors is simply boarded over for now, but the other is nearly intact. Remarkable, really. Ah, here we are.”

The room was still very bare, but it had been scoured clean. Leaded glass double doors opened onto a balcony along one wall, with the aforementioned boards covering a matching gap on the opposite wall. The bed was a massive wooden affair, the craggy carvings of mabari making its place of manufacture clear. It was so huge that it had not been there to begin with then they must have taken it apart to get it up the tower. There was no mattress, but blankets and furs had been piled up on the ancient boards. Someone had found a moth-eaten rug and a chair to set as a bedside table, and that was all the furnishings. The important part, he thought, was the fire crackling in the massive fireplace.

“Well, I’ll leave you then. Rest well, Herald!”

She left, and the room was very large, and very empty. 

The wind clawed at the boards, pried at the sills, whistled through the broken pane in the nearly-intact door.

He had to climb up to sit on the edge of the bed. The steps that should have helped were long gone, burned or dry rotted. He pulled off his boots and let them thud onto the floor. He shed his doublet, but climbed under the covers before shimmying out of his pants and dropping them over the edge.

The bed was very large, and very empty.

He made an angry noise and burrowed deeper under the covers, but he lay there listening to the wind for a very long time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“The Choir of Silence is corrupted,” Dorian read out loftily, holding open the heavy, hand-colored edition of the Chant with an elbow. “You know, I always assumed that the Elder One behind the Venatori was a Magister, but this is something else completely. In Tevinter, they say the Chantry’s tales of Magisters starting the Blight are just that--tales. But here we are. One of those very Magisters, a Darkspawn.”

“I always assumed it was _all_ horseshit, so color me surprised and fucking disconcerted too,” Samhal said. “What do they say started the Blight in Tevinter, then?”

“You know how it is. ‘Not us.’ They say Darkspawn were always there. Magisters and the Blight aren’t even related. Is that a surprise?”

Samhal laughed. “Hardly.” 

“No one wants to admit they shit the bed,” Dorian said. “But if Corypheus is one of the Magisters who entered the Black City, and he’s Darkspawn, what other explanation is there?”

Samhal shrugged fluidly. “Maybe a dozen. The Dalish just say the shems did it. ‘Not us’. I have no idea what the fuck is going on. But I need to, and I need to soon. Pass it over.”

Samhal took the leather-bound book and folded up one leg to rest it on. Dorian pulled the next book out of the stack, examining the binding critically.

“First among the Old Gods was Sih...silence,” Samhal mouthed under his breath. “His least w...uh...whisper cold...no, could end wars or topple Arrrr...chons? Archons. A single word could turn re--re--fuck. Re...crimination, ah, into glory. The sacred fires of his temple burned rare incense, and the trees of Arlathan--huh!-- and lapped at the bones of slaves--nice guy--while his altars dripped with the bloo--oh, of _course_ , blood of--”

“Will you cease that muttering,” snapped Dorian. “You’re driving me mad!” 

“Oh dearie me,” Samhal drawled, without looking up. “I’m sorry to inconvenience you. Do elves in Tevinter often get fine tutors to teach them reading, then? I must have misjudged.” 

Dorian sat back, wincing. “Ah...no. I apologize. I did not realize.” 

“I know. I’m so brilliant, you assumed I could do everything perfectly. That’s not how it works. Now you know; you're welcome.”

Samhal forged his way quietly through the Chant, ignoring Dorian’s gaze. 

“I truly am sorry,” Dorian said. “I did not think. Would you prefer that I read aloud for us both?”

Samhal kept his eyes on the book for a bit, chewing his lip, and then sighed. “I need an interpreter anyway. The Conductor of the Choir of Silence, that’s…?”

“Corypheus, yes. That’s the title, at any rate. I’d give a great deal to get my hands on a copy of the Liberalum and see if we can find the man’s given name--he might have family still.” He held out a hand for the book.

“I never expected to be reading the Chant of Light for research,” Samhal laughed.

“That makes two of us. Alright, let’s see...The High Priest, Conductor of the Choir of Silence, ruled above all the Dreamers of the Imperium. Wisest and most powerful of the Magisters Sidereal. In his dreams, he alone heard the voice of Silence.”

“If he’s a Dreamer, do we need to...can you even guard against Dreamers?”

“Honestly I have no idea. What a horrid thought.”

“I need So--” Samhal cleared his throat. “We’ll have to ask Solas.”

Dorian’s eyebrows drew together. “It’s alright, you know. I know… I heard that things took an unexpected turn on the Plains. I’ve been told that in addition to my many other charms and talents, I’m a terribly good listener.”

“Told by whom, and what did they want you to buy? You love your own voice too much to be a good listener.”

“It is marvelous, isn’t it?” Dorian took a moment to preen theatrically. “Alright, they might have said I was a quick study. But I meant it.”

“Well, there’s nothing to talk about.”

“Have it your way. But just so you know, I’d be the last person to share anything you’d rather keep private.”

Samhal looked away from his eyes, out the window.

“Good," Samhal said shortly. "Then let’s get back to work.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Fox, you got a minute?”

“For you? Fuck no.” Samhal grinned.

Varric returned the grin, but the expression was a little sickly. “So uh...all these heroics and grand speeches sorta...jogged my memory, so I--I sent a message to an old friend, before we left on the last run.”

“Varric, why are you nervous?”

“Nervous? Never. Just… justly cautious. This friend, well, he’s crossed paths with Corypheus before and may have a lead on what he’s doing. He might be able to help. And uh, he’s here now.”

“Great? So do I meet him, or do we have to talk from different sides of a carved screen while he uses a fake voice or something?”

Varric snorted. “No, nothing like that. I’m just worried about…” he glanced around. “Complications. Come on then, I left him down by the practice ring.” 

Varric stumped away, radiating tension, eyes darting around as if he expected attack at any moment. Samhal, torn between concern and curiosity, followed.

New faces were nothing strange in Skyhold, but it was obvious to Samhal which one they were looking for by the time he was halfway down the stairs to the lower bailey. For one thing, the soldiers on either side of the man were giving him a considerable birth, glancing at him now and again from their respectful distance. Tousled black hair, massive shoulders, an improbably huge two-handed sword strapped across his back under his travel pack, and half a head’s height on the next tallest man there. The stranger was watching the sparring, one foot resting on the barrier, unconcerned by the attention he was getting.

As they approached, one of the soldiers noticed the Herald and turned to bow. Another and then another followed suit. The stranger turned as well to see the source of the disturbance, showing a broad face, ruddy and heavy-jawed, and the flash of blue and silver under his cloak.

“This is the Herald?” The man’s bright blue eyes darted to Varric for confirmation.

“Samhal Lavellan, meet Carver Hawke. Carver, meet the Herald of Andraste.”

“Carver...Hawke. As in, Hawke.” Samhal blinked.

“As in _Carver_ Hawke, yes. Well met, Herald. Varric, you didn’t tell me he was pocket-sized.”

“Well, the Tale of the Champion failed to mention your shoulders,” Samhal said, “so let’s add both to his many crimes. Welcome to Skyhold, Serah Hawke.”

“Just Carver, thanks.”

“Carver. So, Varric. Wasn’t Cassandra looking for any lead to Hawke? And didn’t she kidnap you looking for any lead to Hawke?”

Carver’s face began to darken.

“Uh, more or less, yeah.” Varric gave that sickly grin again.

“Should we be...somewhere less public?”

“He asked,” Carver said. “I didn’t agree. Whoever this Cassandra is, if you think I’m going to--”

“Va _rric_!”

Varric winced.

Cassandra came down the steps like a charging druffalo, but checked as she reached them.

“Serah Hawke? Carver Hawke?”

Carver sighed. “Proud bearer of the name, yes. You’ll be Cassandra, I expect.”

“Seeker--no, Inquisitor Cassandra Pentaghast. Varric, you and I will talk--later. Ser Carver, do you know where the Champion is?”

“I do, yes.” There was something warning in his voice.

“You must tell me! It is imperative that she join the fight for--”

“No.”

“I insist! You do not understand the stakes we are dealing with here. Tell me!”

“ _Not. Here._ And that’s all you get. She’s as safe as she can be, and she has a baby, and she’s happy, and she’s going to stay that way. I have one sister left, and I don’t care who you think you are, if you so much as touch her I will rip off your head and piss down the hole. Do I make myself clear?”

There was a bubble of silence and shocked faces around the sparring ring. Cassandra stood up very straight.

“We shall see,” she said.

“Now then. I am Carver Hawke, I killed Corypheus once already, and I am all the Hawke you need.”

Cassandra took a deep breath, but Samhal beat her to it.

“Wonderful! That’s great. Wow, the Champion has a baby! Isn’t it great, Cass? I’m eager to get to work. Let’s go inside, shall we?”

“Inside sounds good,” Varric agreed promptly. “We’ll all have drinks. Strong drinks.”

Samhal put a hand on Cassandra’s shoulder, and after a light push, she let herself be guided back up the stairs.

As they crossed the upper bailey, Samhal spared a long look for the front gate. People came and went, but none of them were bald elves with battered packs and curling wooden staves.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“That sly bugger Varric, though! I thought she’d rope him up and use him as a practice dummy. All this time, and he’s been one step away from the Champion _and_ the Hero of Ferelden!” Samhal sat on the floor of what was slowly becoming Skyhold’s new library, light (and more than a little chill, damp air) streaming through the window behind him. Footsteps rang across the stone on the balcony above them.

Dorian scribbled something down, balancing his notebook on the arm of his chair, before looking up. “Surely she calmed down a bit when that astonishingly beefy Warden fellow told her he’d take her to Cousland, though? I wonder if all Wardens look like they’re carved from granite and never bathe.”

“I don’t think Cass forgives that easily. They could’ve taken her months ago, and maybe now the Inquisitor would be Ferelden’s golden boy instead of her. And maybe I’d be off the hook, so I mean, I see her point.”

“Or Ferelden’s golden boy would be dead and we’d be here again, only without whatever information he’s meant to have.”

“Mmm. Well, we'll learn more at the official meeting tomorrow morning. Ser Carver said Cousland’s been investigating the prison where they first found Corypheus. Hopefully he’ll have more to go on than horseshit Chantry riddles and mythology. No offense.”

“None taken, I suppose. I mean, ‘Like moths who reach a bonfire, the Seven burned. But the Maker kept them from death, and He held the priests before His throne and looked upon them, His long-awaited children at last returned to Him.’ That can’t possibly mean he’s immortal because the Maker made him so. Absurd! And yet...”

“And does it mean there are six more of these fuckers out there?”

“Sweet Andraste, I hope not. Ah, Samhal?” 

The change in Dorian’s tone made Samhal look up sharply. And there, at the head of the stairs, was Solas. He was still wearing his coat and pack, boots mud-streaked. He stood almost uncertainly, staring at Samhal as if he might be an apparition.

Samhal was across the balcony in seconds, but stopped still feet away from Solas.

“You’re back! You’re alright? Not hurt?”

“I am unharmed.”

“And you’re--I was--I can’t do this here! I need to be alone with you.”

“My quarters.” Solas backed up a step, and when Samhal followed he turned and went before him quickly.

When the door to Solas’ tiny room closed behind them, they stood barely a foot apart, but still they didn’t touch.

“You frightened me.”

“Forgive me, Vhenan.”

“I didn’t know when you’d come back, I didn’t know if you’d come back, I didn’t know if you were alright--you were…” With a grunt of frustration, Samhal gave up hunting for words and closed the gap, hands catching at Solas’ coat, slipping underneath, pushing at it. Solas shrugged out of coat and pack at once, dropping them to the floor to wrap his arms around Samhal. Samhal melted into him, clinging to his shoulders.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to do that. I’m so sorry. Will you...be alright?”

“I will endure.”

Samhal held him even more fiercely, and Solas turned his face into Samhal’s neck as Samhal tried to channel everything he couldn’t say with the line of his body. He searched the depths of his mind for the right words, and found them in his mother’s gentle voice.

“What do you need?” Samhal whispered. “What do you need from me?”

Solas tangled his hand in Samhal’s hair, strands tugging between his fingers. For a handful of heartbeats he just stood there, breathing Samhal in.

“Only you. For this moment, only you.”

Samhal nodded into his shoulder.

“You will be missed should you fail to return to your room.”

“I’ll say I had trouble sleeping. Or Dorian will cover for us. I’m not leaving unless you tell me to.”

The bed was very small, and so Samhal spent the night half-covering Solas, but he did not, in fact, have any trouble sleeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can y'all begin to imagine how long I've waited to introduce Carver? And can anyone who follows my Tumblr genuinely be surprised?


	50. Chapter 50

The team gathered around the massive table, the precious map saved from Haven spread over it. Samhal watched them from his perch on the edge of the table--Leliana, pacing in the center. Cullen and Cassandra, serious-faced, hands braced on the ancient wood. Josephine to one side, board and pen in hand. Varric, as far from Cassandra as possible, with the table between them, and Blackwall leaning against a wall well away from the others.

“He’ll be here in just a minute,” Varric said, smiling placatingly. “Said he was going to eat first.”

“We’ve all eaten, and we’re here,” Cassandra scoffed.

“He eats a _lot_.”

“All I know is I need him to have answers,” Samhal said. “I’ve got nothing but questions and if I don’t find some answers soon we’re fucked.”

Heavy hobnail boots rang on the stone in the corridor. Samhal hopped off the table, tugging the bottom of his jerkin smooth.

“There he is,” Varric announced unnecessarily, just as Carver strode through the door. The Warden scanned the assemblage, piercingly blue eyes pausing warily on Leliana before settling on Cullen.

“Rutherford.”

Cullen nodded stiffly. “Serah Hawke.”

“Long way from Kirkwall,” Carver said. Samhal felt the words had weight he didn’t understand yet.

“And a great deal has changed,” Cullen replied.

“What do I call you now? They say you’re not a templar anymore, so I guess you’re not ‘Ser’ Cullen?”

“As I am not your commander, Cullen will suffice.”

Carver nodded abruptly, as if that answered some more important question than the obvious. “Alright,” he said, shifting his attention to Samhal, “what can I tell you that Varric hasn’t already?”

Samhal took a deep breath, and asked the most obvious question.

“Is this a Blight?”

Carver leaned against the table, staring at the map while Samhal reminded himself to breathe.

“I don’t know,” he said at last. “I don’t know. It’s something, for sure. What’s your man Blackwall say?”

Everyone looked at Blackwall, who straightened under the attention. “I’m not in communication with other Wardens, as you know, so if there’s information I don’t have, I really couldn’t answer for sure.”

“Well that’s helpful,” Samhal grumbled.

“I’ll tell you what I do know,” said Carver. “First, we haven’t seen any unusual Darkspawn activity outside what you’re reporting, but we’re not in communication with any Wardens outside Ferelden right now, so something’s up. What, I can’t guess.

“The last time anyone saw Corypheus was _after_ the First Blight, not during. Wardens trapped him and imprisoned him, and he’s been locked up since then, bound and...unconscious. Why they imprisoned him instead of killing him, now--I think they thought they could use him. Why they thought such a fool thing, I don’t know. I suppose people have been idiots throughout history.”

Samhal briefly pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Maybe they imprisoned him because they _couldn't kill him_ , just a thought. The question is, can we?” 

“Look, when we found him four years ago, he bled same as anyone else. Tough bastard, but he bled, and he died. I’d swear it. Ran him through with this sword.” He patted the oddly designed sword strapped between his shoulders.

“But either someone’s wearing his name and that ugly mug, or he didn’t stay dead,” Varric said.

“Varric states that he has no memory of the red lyrium on Corypheus’ person during your previous encounter, nor in his prison,” Josephine said. “Does that fit your recollection as well?”

“Believe me, I would remember,” grumbled Varric. To Samhal’s surprise, he saw Carver briefly squeeze Varric’s shoulder. Varric patted his hand in acknowledgment. “Thanks, Junior, but I’m fine.”

“Varric’s right. We’d remember red lyrium. _Bad_ memories. If this is Corypheus, he’s gotten his hands on it since we saw him.”

“And I’d pay a lot to know how,” Varric added. “Actually, I _am_ paying a lot. No leads yet. Junior, what’d you do with those journals and such we carried away from the prison?”

“In the library at Soldier’s Peak. Haven’t been able to get to them, but I think I already told you the main things anyway.”

“With your note on it, I’ll have them fetched,” said Leliana. Carver nodded.

“Maybe there’s something I’ve forgotten. But either way, Aedan should know more.”

Aedan. The name hung in the air like a powerful talisman. Aedan Cousland, Hero of the Fifth Blight. If anyone had answers, it would be Aedan.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When they came down the mountains into Ferelden, ‘Mud Season’ was in full swing. Samhal felt that he ought to be warmer, since certainly the temperature was, but the damp soaked through everything and leached the heat out of his body and curled his toes. Not to mention that everything that had laid frozen under the snow was now taking the opportunity to rot, and some days the whole world stank.

Somehow he didn’t mind nearly as much as he felt he ought, though. The branches were fattening with green leaflets and dusky red buds, and tiny white and purple flowers pushed through the clumps of half-dead grass. Birds twittered and hopped beyond the verges of the Imperial Highway as they skirted Lake Calenhad. They were making fast progress towards a man who might have the answers they needed, might even be the strong back that could shoulder so much of this burden. Aedan Cousland, Hero of the Fifth Blight, Warden and warrior, and unquestionably more suited to the task than Samhal. Surely he would bring them closer to erasing the future that stalked Samhal’s nightmares.

And then there was Solas. Solas’ calm voice, Solas’ arms at night, Solas’ stories that showed him worlds he hadn’t imagined. The planes of his cheek in the watery mid-morning light, the line of his jaw sweeping up into the point of his ear, the way his back flexed as he moved with his horse’s gait…

“Are you even listening?” Dorian demanded. “Not in the least. I’ve lost you.”

“What?” said Samhal. “No. Yes I am. What else would I be doing? Nothing here but mud. What?” 

Dorian scoffed. “Very convincing. I said, you weren’t too bad the other day. Out practicing with that gangly crow of an enchanter you have. You really seem to have a knack for hexes. Have you considered making a study of necromancy? I’ve found the most fascinating book--”

“ _No._ ”

“Well, no need to be huffy. It’s an elegant and entirely respectable school in Tevinter. If you change your mind, I can--”

“No.” Samhal’s Fereldan Forder danced in annoyance at the unexpected tug on the bit. “I’m not interested in discussing it. Ever.”

Dorian stopped, puzzled. Samhal nudged his horse into a trot, closing the gap between him and Warden Carver, who rode in the lead. Carver greeted him with a nod as he came up.

“Herald. Highever’s another day’s ride if we keep at this pace, and we’ll find Aedan quick enough, I’m sure. If we put on a little speed, we should be able to sleep in beds tonight. Crestwood’s not far. Should be able to see it over this next hill, actually. I don't know about you, but I'm looking forward to drying my feet in front of a proper hearth and getting myself round a pint or three. Blighted rain hasn't-- huh.” Their horses shuffled sideways at the sudden stop. Well, that wasn't there before.”

“Fuck me,” Samhal said. He stared blankly at the spot where virulent green light bubbled and spiked through the water of the lake below them. “How am I supposed to close a rift under a fucking lake?”

“Just so we're all on the same page,” Varric said behind him, “I'm not much of a swimmer.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the end, the rift required a lot less free-diving than feared, and a lot more slogging through recently drained caves and passages filled with algae-coated bones. The lake, it turned out, was not natural, but the product of a dam. Fix the dam, drain the lake, save the day, and Samhal even got to sleep in a proper bed to recover from sealing the rift. Even meeting an incredibly self-important spirit of Command was made entirely worthwhile by the discovery that Solas didn't quite love all spirits equally after all. 

Cassandra insisted that it was their duty to root out the bandits that had reportedly taken over the nearby fortress of Caer Bronach the next day. Samhal chafed at the delay, but keeping Cassandra happy was worth the detour. Carver, it turned out, was a one-man siege crew, and they were battering through highwaymen with horrible efficiency when things suddenly went sideways for Samhal.

He was in the back, partly shielded by a stack of crates. His energy was focused on weakening a great beast of a man with a maul, keeping him from stoving in Carver’s skull. To his right, where Dorian fought, Samhal saw a purple haze, felt and instantly recognized the insistent call and curious response shivering through the Veil, and an archer Samhal had been certain was downed rose jerkily to his feet. 

The gaping wound in his neck seeped blood sluggishly, and his eyes stared forward unseeing as he pulled his dagger. He--it--lurched like a marionette as he turned toward his former fellow, arm raised, and Samhal lost his grip on the present.

 _Moving forward as if she didn't feel the flames, hair rising in the heat, catching sparks. She turned toward him, smiling, but the smile pulled wrong, the eyes unfocused. “Mamae? Mamae?”_. Paralysing cold seeped through Samhal’s chest, freezing his lungs.

“Fox! Hey, we're falling behind. You get hit?”

Samhal fought to focus on Varric’s face, on the sounds of fighting ahead. The maul wielder was down, the archer once more prone and still next to him. He forced himself forward, cold and hollow, rigidly controlling the tremor of his muscles. He viciously kicked the archer as he passed.

“I'm fine. Just fine.” He bared his teeth in a grimace. “Keep up, stumpy.”

But that night he told Dorian that he was never to revive a person in Samhal's presence again. He said nothing about why, and his tone forbade questioning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Couldn't he just have gone without the Warden armor like you did and come himself?” They were a day past Crestwood now, and Samhal was beginning to chafe at the delay.

“Have you somehow failed to ever see an image of Aedan Cousland?” Carver scoffed. “If you think I’m big, add half a foot height. Then give it hair and beard the color of a new copper and a few square feet of scars and tattoos. The man doesn’t blend in.”

“Then how in Thedas is he hiding at all?”

“Oh, I'm sure he's not. Not from the locals, anyhow. He’s hiding from the Orlesian Wardens, because it’s bad sport killing your fellows just because they’ve gone daft and think they can take a Cousland where he doesn’t want to go. I’m sure every man, woman and child for miles around knows just where he is. No Fereldan in the north would turn him in, not for an estate and a crown to go with.”

Samhal mulled on this. “Then how do you expect to find him?”

“Ask, naturally.”

And in fact, it really was that simple. At the next shabby inn, Carver held a whispered exchange with the innkeep when they came in, and not a quarter of an hour later their group was approached by a shriveled apple of an old man who would say no more than that they should follow. 

Follow they did, into the thickening dark, for long enough that time began to feel a little unreal to Samhal. They’d long since stopped speaking. At last, they turned off the rutted lane towards the jagged shapes of an old ruin, hulking black against the moonlit clouds.

Samhal broke the silence. “The Hero of Ferelden is hiding in a house with no roof?”

The old man hissed angrily at him to be quiet, and then whispered back, “Not hiding, no.”

Samhal made a petulant face in the dark, but was arrested by the sound of a long, slow whuff of air nearby. Like a dog snorting in its sleep. Only… _huge_.

“Oh, good, you’re here.”

Samhal whirled, and found himself nose-to-sternum with a wall of plaid wool and tooled leather. He followed the expanse of chest upwards to find a face, grinning and pale in the moonlight, one huge finger laid over its lips. Samhal’s first absurd thought was in Dorian’s voice: _“I wonder if all Wardens look like they’re carved from granite and never bathe.”_

“Hullo there. You lot must be Inquisition. Like a good fight?” The man’s whisper was deep as caves.

“Aedan!” Carver hissed. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Northern Hunter.” Aedan’s teeth gleamed in the moonlight. “You ready?”

“Ready for what!” Samhal exclaimed, dwarfed between the two men, thoroughly off-balance.

Carver sighed. “Ready to hunt a dragon. Were you just going to go after it _yourself_ before we came?”

“Myself! Nonsense. Half a dozen of Highever’s best archers out there, and I’ve got Dworkin.” Aedan gestured, and belatedly, Samhal noticed a dwarf behind Aedan, a bulging satchel slung over each shoulder. Under a bushy blonde moustache, the dwarf gave him a grin at least as unnerving as Aedan’s. “Besides, I sent for you, didn’t I?”

Behind him, Dworkin chuckled, and Carver narrowed his eyes. “Wait, Dworkin the Mad? That Dworkin?”

“Sure lad. Sure, that’s me. Come on then, I’ve never blown up a dragon before.”

Aedan finally focused on Samhal, engulfing one shoulder in a giant, hot paw. “So the Herald’s Dalish after all. Didn't believe it, myself. You stay back, boy. Far too important to lose over a few eaten horses.”

“What is the meaning of this,” Cassandra snapped, her anger undimmed by her whisper.

“Just a bit of local housekeeping, milady. Nothing to worry about. Carver, introductions?”

Carver's voice came out between his teeth in a strangled half-whisper. “Aedan, this is Samhal Lavellan, Herald of Andraste, and Cassandra Pentaghast. Samhal, Cassandra-- Aedan Fucking Cousland.”

Aedan grinned. “The Cassandra Pentaghast? Hero of Orlais? Maferath’s balls, this'll be an easier night's work than I thought! Alright, you and Carv'll be with me, then. And you--” he pushed his chin at Blackwall. “Know how to use that shield?”

“Well enough.”

“Then you, too. Hold back until I charge, then do everything you can to the wings. If we keep her on the ground, we get some sleep tonight. Dworkin’ll do his best to blow us some weak points, so go for those. Mages and archers, I expect you know your jobs better’n I do. You--” here he squeezed Samhal's shoulder, which he was still holding-- “find a nook over there and stay out of sight. Ready?” He hardly waited for an answer before jogging off, disappearing down a slope to their right. With a more than usually infuriated snort, Cassandra went after him, and after a moment's hesitation, the others did as well. Only Varric stayed behind.

“Don't take it personally, Fox. This is just how Alistair described him. He's a Cousland. Couslands take charge. Come on, let's go get a good spot--this’ll be a show.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For several minutes, nothing happened. Several times, Samhal thought he saw metal flash in the moonlight, but he couldn't make out who or what. He couldn't manage to spot any of the archers supposedly lying in wait, either, even after Varric pointed out two of them. Solas and Dorian waited on the slope below, Solas’s eyes throwing back the moonlight as he glanced upward towards Samhal. The dragon was an indistinct mound far below. He thought he could just see her sides rising and falling ponderously as she slept. 

He couldn't help thinking of Corypheus’ dragon, breath hot and fetid, teeth the size of his hands. In the same breath, he resented being summarily set aside like a child and was bitterly relieved to put some distance between himself and that looming form.

Then there was a pop and a strange fizzing sound, and a shower of sparks arced through the air down below, quickly followed by another. Before he could grasp what magic this could be, there was a deafening double explosion, and suddenly the world was fire and chaos.

Aedan exploded out of the shadows, laughing wildly, followed closely by the other warriors. They split around the dragon's head, heading for the vulnerable wing membranes. From Dorian’s direction, a glyph flashed, leaving blue afterimages. Several more sputtering devices rolled towards the beast, and Samhal braced himself against another explosion, but these flared into flame, apparently designed to illuminate and not explode. After a moment’s adjustment, he was able to see quite clearly as Carver took a wing tip to the chest and skidded several yards before bouncing back into the fight.

The Hunter woke disoriented and already wounded, but rallied quickly. She gathered her massive rear legs under her, ready to take off, and Aedan roared to the others to stop her. On one side, Carver flung himself bodily at the dragon’s wing, apparently trying to wrap himself around it. On the other, Blackwall threw his belt-axe, a length of rope spooling out behind, and snared a wing where it narrowed towards the body. He got yanked off his feet immediately. Cassandra, shifting up from behind, might have been targeting a leg when the creature let out its first roar.

The noise went on and on. Bits of rotted stone and lichen trickled into Samhal’s collar. He covered his ears, hunching inward.

Then another sputtering missile arced out of the dark, straight into the gaping maw. The dragon snapped its mouth shut, head angling like a startled puppy, and everything was still for a moment. An arrow bounced off the dragon’s head next to her eye. And then there was a muffled whump, the Hunter’s eyes rolled up in her head, and her legs went out from under her.

It was startlingly quick after that. Together, Aedan and Cassandra pried up scales displaced by the first set of explosions, and Aedan ran his massive sword up into the dragon’s heart. Simple.

Samhal blinked. Killing a dragon, just like that. According to plan. He’d barely had time to be afraid.

Varric’s thoughts must have run along the same lines, because he snorted and muttered, “Is it arrogance if you’re right?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Still grinning, Aedan clapped a fuming Cassandra on the back. “There! That's taken care of. Let's catch a few winks, and tomorrow we'll see if we can't clear up the rest of this nonsense.” 

Samhal exchanged bemused glances with Dorian. The Warden made it sound as though the departure of the Wardens, the Breach, Corypheus, and all fell under the heading of “this nonsense”. Just...clear it up, like a misunderstanding in the bar. As Samhal followed Aedan to a nearby farmstead, the sky was lightening in the east, and maybe it was just sleep deprivation that inspired this giddy, light feeling.

They collapsed, exhausted, on hastily assembled straw pallets, sharing space near the fire with a curious goat. Samhal was almost too tired to wish he wasn’t so far from Solas. 

Aedan snored like a broken cart wheel dragging over cobblestones. Naturally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, I still exist. I promise I never gave up on the fic in my heart, I just...life.


End file.
